Presently Juliet called Sally and took him into the quaint old dining-room and gave him cakes and jam on a table that shone like glass.  There he saw Mr. Burwell—­a pink-cheeked, little gentleman who wore an expansive air of innocence and a white pique waistcoat—­and Mrs. Burwell, a pretty, gray-haired woman, who ruled her husband with the velvet-pawed despotism which was the heritage of the women of her race and day.  She had never bought a bonnet without openly consulting his judgment; he had never taken a step in life without unconsciously following hers.

“Really, my dear Sally,” he had said when he heard of Nicholas’s reception by his daughter, “Juliet must a—­a—­be taught to recognise the existence of class.  Really, I cannot have her bringing all these people into my house.  You must put a stop to it at once, my dear.”

Mrs. Burwell had smiled placidly as she patted her gray fringe.

“Of course you know best, Mr. Burwell,” she had replied with that touching humility which forbade her to address her husband by his Christian name.  “Of course you know best about such matters, and I’ll tell Juliet what you say.  Poor child, she has such confidence in your judgment that she will believe whatever you say to be right; but she does love so to feel that she is exerting a good influence over the boys, and, perhaps, helping them to work out their future salvation.  She thinks, too, that it is so well for them to have a chance of talking to you.  I heard her tell Dudley Webb that he must take you for an example—­”

“Ah!—­ahem!” said Mr. Burwell, who worshipped the ground his daughter trod upon.  “I suppose it would be a pity to interfere with her, eh, my dear?”

“Well, I can’t help wishing myself, Mr. Burwell, that she would select children of her own class in life, but, as you say, she has taken a fancy to that Burr boy, and he seems to be a decent, respectful kind of child.  Of course I know it is your soft heart that makes you look at it in this way—­but I love you all the better for it.  I remember the day you proposed to me for the sixth time, I had just seen you bandage up the head of a little darkey that had cut himself—­and I accepted you on the spot.”

“Yes, yes, my love,” Mr. Burwell had responded, kissing his wife as they left the room.  “I am convinced that I am right, and I am glad that you agree with me.  We won’t speak of it to Juliet.”

In the hall below they met Nicholas Burr, and greeted him with hospitable kindness.

“So this is your new scholar, eh, Juliet?  You must do justice to your teacher, my boy.”

Juliet laughed and went out into the yard to meet several young men who were coming up the walk, and Nicholas noticed with a jealous pang that she sat with them beneath the myrtle and talked in the same soft voice with the same radiant smile.  She was not speaking of heaven now.  She was laughing merrily at pointless jokes and promising to embroider a handkerchief for one and to make a box of caramels for another.