upon a campaign of injustice and
ill-will? Leave that, and the glory of it, to Grandmoulin and to
Picault!"

"But, my chief, the positions of the French and the English!--We who
were first, are becoming last!"

"Come here if you please, sir," Haviland said, turning to Chrysler, who
rose and advanced to him surprised. Haviland took him, and passing over
to De La Lande, placed the hand of the Ontario gentleman in that of the
high-spirited schoolmaster, who accepted it, puzzled. "There!" cried
Haviland, raising his voice to a pitch of solemnity. "Say whatever you
can in that position. _That is the position of the Canadian races_?"

A shout rose in the hall, and every man sprang to his feet. Cheer rose
upon cheer, while De La Lande shook the hand in his with feeling; and
the cheering, smiling, and hand shaking, lasted nearly a minute.

It ended at a story by Zotique.

"When I was a boy,"--he began, in a deep, exaggerated voice, and
whirling his two arms so as to include the whole of those present in the
circle of his address. The cheers and confusion broke into a roar of
laughter for a moment, that stifled itself almost as quickly, as they
listened.

"We lived for a year in the Village Ste. Aldegonde, near to Montreal. In
the Village Ste. Aldegonde there was a nation of boys. All these boys
marched in daily to town to the great School of the Blessed Brothers.
Along the way to the School of the Blessed Brothers, many English boys
lay in wait between us and learning, and we passed certain streets like
Hurons passing through the forests of Iroquois. Often we went in large
war parties, and repeated the charges of Waterloo for hours up and down
streets."

"One afternoon I passed there alone--accompanied by a great boaster. We
behold three big English boys. We cross the street. They come
after:--get before us:--command us to stop!"

The audience were worked up into suppressed fits, for Zotique's gestures
were inimitable.

"My friend the boaster steps forward with the air Napoleonic! He sticks
out his breast like this; he shortens his neck, like this; he frowns his
brows; he glares at them a terrible look; he cries: 'I am of the
Canadian blood!'"

"And what does he do next, gentlemen?" Zotique paused a moment.

--"Runs for his life!"

The roar that followed shook the apartment. Zotique stopped it.

"But what did _I_ do, gentlemen?"

No one ventured to guess.

"I--perhaps because I was of the Dormilliere blood-