repress, only added to her
petulance and desire to be revenged on him. It is so with all
women--they hate to be put in the wrong, even when the doing so means
protection to themselves. And so it was wellnigh intolerable to the
spoiled beauty, who had never been used to the lightest contradiction,
that this calm young American should so openly show his disapproval of
her.

"I will pass by your reproof of myself, Monsieur," she said at length,
haughtily; her eyes flashing and a deep blush mantling her brow, "but I
cannot consent to listen in silence to your condemnation of a personage
whose talents and rank should protect him from your sarcasms."

"Rank, Madame!" burst out Mr. Calvert at these words. "I never knew
before that morality or immorality, loyalty or treason, honor or
dishonor had aught to do with rank! In our country 'tis not so. A king's
word can make of the meanest scoundrel a duke, a marquis, but an honest
man holds his rank by a power greater than any king's." He bent upon her
such a compelling gaze that she was forced to turn and look at him.
Before Calvert's flashing eyes and manly, honest indignation her own
anger died out and an unwilling admiration took its place. She blushed
again deeply and bit her lips. This young American, with his noble
face, his simplicity of manner and democratic scorn of her rank and
pretensions, had not only accused, but silenced her. At any rate he
should not see that he had impressed her! She laughed lightly.

"What a noble sentiment, Monsieur! Did you find it in one of Monsieur
Rousseau's books?"

"No, Madame, it was not in the works of the famous Monsieur Rousseau
that I found the expression of that sentiment," replied Calvert,
hesitating slightly. "'Tis the theme of a little song by a young man
named Robert Burns, who writes the sweetest poetry in the world, I
think. He is a friend and protege of Dr. Witherspoon, of the College of
Princeton, who never tires of reading his verses to us. I wish I could
give you some idea of the beauty and power of the poem," and he began to
translate "For a' that, and a' that" into the best French at his
command, smiling every now and then at the strange substitutes for
Burns's Scotch which he was forced to employ and at the curious
metamorphosis of the poem into French prose. But he managed to infuse
the spirit and sentiment of the original into his offhand translation,
and Madame de St. Andre listened attentively.

"I would like to