“In those times,” continued the Doctor, “the whole earth will be of one language.”

“Which language, Sir, do you suppose will be considered worthy of such preeminence?” inquired his listener.

“That will probably be decided by an amicable conference of all nations,” said the Doctor; “and the one universally considered most valuable will be adopted; and the literature of all other nations being translated into it, they will gradually drop all other tongues.  Brother Stiles thinks it will be the Hebrew.  I am not clear on that point.  The Hebrew seems to me too inflexible, and not sufficiently copious.  I do not think,” he added, after some consideration, “that it will be the Hebrew tongue.”

“I am most happy to hear it, Sir,” said Burr, gravely; “I never felt much attracted to that language.  But, ladies,” he added, starting up with animation, “I must improve this fine weather to ask you to show me the view of the sea from this little hill beyond your house, it is evidently so fine;—­I trust I am not intruding too far on your morning?”

“By no means, Sir,” said Mrs. Scudder, rising; “we will go with you in a moment.”

And soon Colonel Burr, with one on either arm, was to be seen on the top of the hill beyond the house,—­the very one from which Mary, the week before, had seen the retreating sail we all wot of.  Hence, though her companion contrived, with the adroitness of a practised man of gallantry, to direct his words and looks as constantly to her as if they had been in a tete-a-tete, and although nothing could be more graceful, more delicately flattering, more engaging, still the little heart kept equal poise; for where a true love has once bolted the door, a false one serenades in vain under the window.

Some fine, instinctive perceptions of the real character of the man beside her seemed to have dawned on Mary’s mind in the conversation of the morning;—­she had felt the covert and subtile irony that lurked beneath his polished smile, felt the utter want of faith or sympathy in what she and her revered friend deemed holiest, and therefore there was a calm dignity in her manner of receiving his attentions which rather piqued and stimulated his curiosity.  He had been wont to boast that he could subdue any woman, if he could only see enough of her; in the first interview in the garden, he had made her color come and go and brought tears to her eyes in a manner that interested his fancy, and he could not resist the impulse to experiment again.  It was a new sensation to him, to find himself quietly studied and calmly measured by those thoughtful blue eyes; he felt, with his fine, instinctive tact, that the soul within was infolded in some crystalline sphere of protection, transparent, but adamantine, so that he could not touch it.  What was that secret poise, that calm, immutable centre on which she rested, that made her, in her rustic simplicity, so unapproachable and so strong?