“Well done for old Crely!” said my husband, when he had gone through the long array.  “Come, let us go over to Wood’s Museum and renew our acquaintance with the venerable gentleman.”

I did not need a second invitation, for I was curious to witness the wonders which the whirligig of time had wrought with our old employe.

We chose an early hour for our visit, that we might pay our respects to both him and the granddaughter who had him in charge, unembarrassed by the presence of strangers.

In a large room on the second floor of the building, among cages of birds and animals, some stuffed, others still living, we perceived, seated by a window, a figure clad in bright cashmere dressing-gown and gay tasselled cap, tranquilly smoking a tah-nee-hoo-rah, or long Indian pipe.  His form was upright, his face florid, and less changed than might have been expected by the thirty-one years that had elapsed since we had last seen him.  He was alone, and my husband addressed him at first in English:—­

“Good-morning, M. Crely.  Do you remember me?”

He shook his head emphatically.  “Je ne comprends pas.  Je ne me ressouviens de rien—­je suis vieux, vieux—­le treize Septembre, mil sept cent vingt-six, je suis ne.  Non, non,” with a few gentle shakes of the head, “je ne puis rappeler rien—­je suis vieux, vieux."[61]

My husband changed his inquiries to the patois which Crely could not feign not to comprehend.

“Where is your granddaughter?  I am acquainted with her, and would like to speak with her.”

The old man sprang up with the greatest alacrity, and, running to a door in the wooden partition which cut off a corner of the room and thus furnished an apartment for the ancient phenomenon, he rapped vigorously, and called, in accents quite unlike his former feeble, drawling tones,—­

“Therese, Therese—­il y a icite un monsieur qui voudrait vous voir."[62]

The granddaughter presently made her appearance.  She looked shyly at my husband from under her brows.

“Do you know me, Therese?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.  It is Mr. Kinzie.”

“And do you know me also?” I said, approaching.  She looked at me and shook her head.

“No, I do not,” she replied.

“What, Therese!  Have you forgotten Madame John, who taught you to read—­you and all the little girls at the Portage?”

“Oh, my heavens, Mrs. Kinzie!—­but you have changed so!”

“Yes, Therese, I have grown old in all these years; but I have not grown old quite so fast as your grandpapa here.”

There was a flash in her eye that told she felt my meaning.  She hung her head without speaking, while the color deepened over her countenance.

“Now,” said I, in French, to the grandfather, “you remember me—­”

He interrupted me with a protest, “Non, non—­je ne puis rappeler rien—­je suis vieux, vieux—­le treize Septembre, mil sept cent vingt-six, je suis ne a Detroit.”