As for Mrs. Burrows, she seemed to have devoted her whole life to her
father, the Colonel. She had lost much of her former beauty and had
become a thin, pale woman with anxious eyes and an expectant and
deprecating air, as if always prepared to ward off a sudden blow. Her
solicitude for the old Colonel was almost pathetic and while he was in
her presence she constantly hovered around him, doing little things for
his comfort which he invariably acknowledged with his courtly bow and a
gracious word of thanks.

It was through her association with this cultured old gentleman that
Mary Louise had imbibed a certain degree of logic and philosophy unknown
to many girls of fifteen. He taught her consideration for others as the
keynote of happiness, yet he himself declined to mingle with his fellow
men. He abhorred sulking and was always cheerful and pleasant in his
home circle, yet when others approached him familiarly he resented it
with a frown. He taught his granddaughter to be generous to the poor and
supplied her freely with money for charity, yet he personally refused
all demands upon him by churches or charitable societies.

In their long talks together he displayed an intimate acquaintance with
men and affairs, but never referred in any way to his former life.

"Are you really a colonel?" Mary Louise once asked him.

"Men call me so," he replied, but there was a tone in his voice that
warned the girl not to pursue the subject further. She knew his moods
almost as well as her mother did.

The Colonel was very particular as to dress. He obtained his own