“Thank’ee, Mr. Rand, I will.  Your room’s all ready, sir, and Burwell shall bring you a julep.  I reckon you’re pretty tired.  Lord!  I’d rather clear a mountain side and then plough it, than to have to sit there all day on that there Justice’s Bench and listen to them Federalists!  They’re a lot!  And that Fairfax Cary—­he’s a chip of the old block, he surely is!  He’d have gone through fire to-day to see his brother win.  This way, gentlemen!  Sally’ll have supper ready in a jiffy.  I smell the coffee now.  Well, well, Mr. Rand! to think of the way you used to trudge up here all weathers, snow or storm or hot sun, just for a book—­and now you come riding in on Selim, elected to Richmond, over the heads of the Carys!  Life’s queer, ain’t it?  We’ll hear of you at Fontenoy next!”

Rand smiled.  “Life’s not so queer as that, Mr. Bacon.  I wish you might—­” he broke off.

“Might what?” asked Bacon.

“Hear of me at Fontenoy,” answered Rand, and entered the wide hall as one who was at home there.  “I’ll go bathe my face and hands,” he said, and turned into the passage that led to the bedrooms.

A tall clock struck the hour, a bell rang cheerfully, and Burwell flung open the dining-room door.  Rand, entering a moment later, found the overseer, the hunter, and the dancing master awaiting him.  With a nod and a “Ha, Burwell!” for the old servant, he took his place at the table, and he took it like a prince, throwing his tall, vigorous figure into the armchair which marked the head of the board, seating himself before the other and older men.  In the wave of his hand toward the three remaining places there was a condescension not the less remarkable that it was entirely unconscious.  The life within him was moving with great rapidity.  It was becoming increasingly natural for him to act, simply, without thought, as his inner man bade.  What yesterday was uneasiness, and to-day seemed assurance, was apt by to-morrow to attain convincingness.  It was not that he appeared to value himself too highly.  Instead, he made no attempt at valuation; he went his way like wind or wave.  He took the armchair at the head of the Monticello table with the simplicity of a child, and the bearing of a general who sups with his officers after a victorious field.

The unfolding of the petal was not missed by his companions.  Adam Gaudylock, with a glance, half shrewd and half affectionate, for the man whom he had known from boyhood, sank into the opposite seat with a light and happy laugh.  It mattered little to Adam where he sat in life, provided that it was before a window.  The overseer, a worthy, plain man, had a thought of old Gideon Rand, but, remembering in time Mr. Jefferson’s high opinion of the man now occupying his chair, sat down and unfolded his damask napkin with great care.  Mr. Pincornet, indeed, raised his eyebrows and made a backward movement from the table, but at that moment a mulatto boy appeared with a plate of waffles.  The light from the wax candles burned, too, in certain crimson decanters.  “Sit down, sit down, Mr. Pincornet!” said Rand, and the dancing master took the remaining place.