I have seen a miniature of her, which her lover wore at Yorktown, and which he always swore that Washington coveted—­a miniature painted by a wandering artist of the day, which entirely justifies the French officer in his abandonment of the trade of a soldier.  Such is man in his best estate.  A charming face can make him campaign and fight and slay like a demon, can make a coward of him, can fill him with ambition to win the world, and can tame him into the domesticity of a drawing-room cat.  There is this noble capacity in man to respond to the divinest thing visible to him in this world.  Etienne Debree became, I believe, a very good citizen of the republic, and in ’93 used occasionally to shake his head with satisfaction to find that it was still on his shoulders.  I am not sure that he ever visited Mount Vernon, but after Washington’s death Debree’s intimacy with our first President became a more and more important part of his life and conversation.  There is a pleasant tradition that Lafayette, when he was here in 1784, embraced the young bride in the French manner, and that this salute was valued as a sort of heirloom in the family.

I always thought that Margaret inherited her New England conscience from her great-great-grandmother, and a certain esprit or gayety—­that is, a sub-gayety which was never frivolity—­from her French ancestor.  Her father and mother had died when she was ten years old, and she had been reared by a maiden aunt, with whom she still lived.  The combined fortunes of both required economy, and after Margaret had passed her school course she added to their resources by teaching in a public school.  I remember that she taught history, following, I suppose, the American notion that any one can teach history who has a text-book, just as he or she can teach literature with the same help.  But it happened that Margaret was a better teacher than many, because she had not learned history in school, but in her father’s well-selected library.

There was a little stir at Margaret’s entrance; Mr. Lyon was introduced to her, and my wife, with that subtle feeling for effect which women have, slightly changed the lights.  Perhaps Margaret’s complexion or her black dress made this readjustment necessary to the harmony of the room.  Perhaps she felt the presence of a different temperament in the little circle.

I never can tell exactly what it is that guides her in regard to the influence of light and color upon the intercourse of people, upon their conversation, making it take one cast or another.  Men are susceptible to these influences, but it is women alone who understand how to produce them.  And a woman who has not this subtle feeling always lacks charm, however intellectual she may be; I always think of her as sitting in the glare of disenchanting sunlight as indifferent to the exposure as a man would be.  I know in a general way that a sunset light induces one kind of talk and noonday light another, and I have learned that talk