Burr accepted the invitation with a frank and almost boyish abandon, declaring that he had not seen anything, for years, that so reminded him of old times.  He praised everything at table,—­the smoking brown-bread, the baked beans steaming from the oven, where they had been quietly simmering during the morning walk, and the Indian pudding, with its gelatinous softness, matured by long and patient brooding in the motherly old oven.  He declared that there was no style of living to be compared with the simple, dignified order of a true New England home, where servants were excluded, and everything came direct from the polished and cultured hand of a lady.  It realized the dreams of Arcadian romance.  A man, he declared, must be unworthy the name, who did not rise to lofty sentiments and heroic deeds, when even his animal wants were provided for by the ministrations of the most delicate and exalted portion of the creation.

After dinner he would be taken into all the family interests.  Gentle and pliable as oil, he seemed to penetrate every joint of the menage by a subtile and seductive sympathy.  He was interested in the spinning, in the weaving,—­and in fact, nobody knows how it was done, but, before the afternoon shadows had turned, he was sitting in the cracked arm-chair of Mary’s garret-boudoir, gravely giving judgment on several specimens of her spinning, which Mrs. Scudder had presented to his notice.

With that ease with which he could at will glide into the character of the superior and elder brother, he had, without seeming to ask questions, drawn from Mary an account of her reading, her studies, her acquaintances.

“You read French, I presume?” he said to her, with easy negligence.

Mary colored deeply, and then, as one who recollects one’s self, answered, gravely,—­

“No, Mr. Burr, I know no language but my own.”

“But you should learn French, my child,” said Burr, with that gentle dictatorship which he could at times so gracefully assume.

“I should be delighted to learn,” said Mary, “but have no opportunity.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Scudder,—­“Mary has always had a taste for study, and would be glad to improve in any way.”

“Pardon me, Madam, if I take the liberty of making a suggestion.  There is a most excellent man, the Abbe Lefon, now in Newport, driven here by the political disturbances in France; he is anxious to obtain a few scholars, and I am interested that he should succeed, for he is a most worthy man.”

“Is he a Roman Catholic?”

“He is, Madam; but there could be no manner of danger with a person so admirably instructed as your daughter.  If you please to see him, Madam, I will call with him some time.”

“Mrs. Marvyn will, perhaps, join me,” said Mary.  “She has been studying French by herself for some time, in order to read a treatise on astronomy, which she found in that language.  I will go over to-morrow and see her about it.”