president had gathered about him. East
of Fourth Street, Mr. Jefferson turned into a court, and presently
stood for a moment on the front step of a two-story brick building known
as Carpenter's Hall, over which a low spire still bore a forgotten
crown. Not less forgotten were Jefferson's democratic manners. He was at
once the highly educated and well-loved Virginian of years ago.

He had made good use of his time, and the woman at his side, well aware
of the value of being agreeable, had in answer to a pleasant question
given her name, and presently had been told by the ex-minister his own
name, with which she was not unfamiliar.

"Here, madame," he said, "the first Congress met. I had the misfortune
not to be of it."

"But later, monsieur--later, you can have had nothing to regret."

"Certainly not to-day," said the Virginian. He paused as a tall,
powerfully built man, coming out with a book in his hand, filled the
doorway.

"Good morning, Mr. Wynne," said Jefferson. "Is the librarian within?"

"Yes; in the library, up-stairs."

Hearing the name of the gentleman who thus replied, the young vicomte
said:

"May I ask, sir, if you are Mr. Hugh Wynne?"

"Yes, I am; and, if I am not mistaken, you are the Vicomte de Courval,
and this, your mother. Ah, madame," he said in French, far other than
that of the secretary, "I missed you at Oeller's, and I am now at your
service. What can I do for you?"

The vicomtesse replied that they had been guided hither by Mr.
Jefferson to find a list of lodging-houses.

"Then let us go and see about it."

"This way, Vicomte," said Jefferson. "It is up-stairs, madame." Ah,
where now were the plain manners of democracy and the scorn of titles? A
low, sweet voice had bewitched him, the charm of perfect French at its
best.

The United States bank was on the first floor, and the clerks looked up
with interest at the secretary and his companions as they passed the
open door. De Courval lingered to talk with Wynne, both in their way
silently amused at the capture by the vicomtesse of the gentleman with
Jacobin principles.

The room up-stairs was surrounded with well-filled book-shelves. Midway,
at a table, sat Zachariah Poulson, librarian, who was at once
introduced, and who received them with the quiet good manners of his
sect. A gentleman standing near the desk looked up from the book in his
hand. While Mr. Poulson went in search of the desired list, Mr. Wynne
said: "Good morni