During this speech, Cato stood meekly bowing, feeling that he was being apologized for in the best possible manner; for long years of instruction had fixed the idea in his mind, that he was an ignorant sinner, who had not the smallest notion how to conduct himself in this world, and that, if it were not for his wife’s distinguishing grace, he would long since have been in the shades of oblivion.

“Missis is spinnin’ up in de north chamber,” said Candace; “but I’ll run up and fetch her down.”

Candace, who was about the size of a puncheon, was fond of this familiar manner of representing her mode of ascending the stairs; but Mary, suppressing a smile, said, “Oh, no, Candace! don’t for the world disturb her.  I know just where she is.”  And before Candace could stop her, Mary’s light foot was on the top step of the staircase that led up from the kitchen.

The north room was a large chamber, overlooking a splendid reach of sea-prospect.  A moving panorama of blue water and gliding sails was unrolled before its three windows, so that stepping into the room gave one an instant and breezy sense of expansion.  Mrs. Marvyn was standing at the large wheel, spinning wool,—­a reel and basket of spools on her side.  Her large brown eyes had an eager joy in them when Mary entered; but they seemed to calm down again, and she received her only with that placid, sincere air which was her habit.  Everything about this woman showed an ardent soul, repressed by timidity and by a certain dumbness in the faculties of outward expression; but her eyes had, at times, that earnest, appealing language which is so pathetic in the silence of inferior animals.—­One sometimes sees such eyes, and wonders whether the story they intimate will ever be spoken in mortal language.

Mary began eagerly detailing to her all that had interested her since they last met:—­the party,—­her acquaintance with Burr,—­his visit to the cottage,—­his inquiries into her education and reading,—­and, finally, the proposal, that they should study French together.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Marvyn, “let us begin at once;—­such an opportunity is not to be lost.  I studied a little with James, when he was last at home.”

“With James?” said Mary, with an air of timid surprise.

“Yes,—­the dear boy has become, what I never expected, quite a student.  He employs all his spare time now in reading and studying;—­the second mate is a Frenchman, and James has got so that he can both speak and read.  He is studying Spanish, too.”

Ever since the last conversation with her mother on the subject of James, Mary had felt a sort of guilty constraint when any one spoke of him;—­instead of answering frankly, as she once did, when anything brought his name up, she fell at once into a grave, embarrassed silence.