But even if Dick did make fun of my Latin, and call it barbarous, he was a good fellow, although I must say that at times he presumed a little upon his seniority so as to be a trifle mentorish. Indeed, I loved him as a friend, independently of my affection for him as a relative. He was considerate, too, and never troubled me with any of his Romanish notions, except when I sometimes asked him a question about the church, or touching some point in Catholic history, and then I generally received more information than I either expected or desired. One of these occasions I well remember, for the conversation eventually led to serious results for me. I had gone down to spend a week with the Gastons. One rainy afternoon—too wet to drive over to the village, as we had intended—I had just waded through the strange, eventful story of that gay and festive American citizen, Mr. St. Elmo, and, as usual when at a loss for something to do, I began to look around for Dick. I soon found him in the library, but so entirely engrossed with a book that he did not notice my entrance. “What are you reading?” I asked. “Oh!” said he, “nothing that would interest you.” “Let me see?” I took the book, and read the title-page: _Introduction to a Devout Life. From the French of S. Francis of Sales._ “Why, Dick,” said I, “this is Thursday, not Sunday.” “What do you mean?” “Why,” said I, “on Sunday you get out the Bible, or some pious book, and read a spell—needn’t read very long, you know, about enough to keep your face straight for the rest of the day. It’s the thing to do—good young man, and all that sort of thing, you know—_Cela vous pose_, as the French say; but as to pious reading, except for that or to fight a rainy Sabbath with—never heard of such a thing. But what’s your book about? Who is your Sales man? Some old ‘stick-in-the-mud’ of a stupid hermit, eh?” “Your phrase is not of the politest,” replied Dick, “but I will answer your question. S. Francis of Sales was not what you describe, but an elegant, accomplished gentleman, a graduate of the Sorbonne at Paris, and of the University of Padua, where, after a brilliant examination, he took the degree of doctor of laws with great distinction.” “That might all be,” I answered, for I was determined not to accept Dick’s saint without a fight, as was indeed my duty, being a staunch Protestant—a _rôle_ no one need ever have any trouble in filling, for, as I understand it, you have nothing to do but deny everything the Romanists assert—“that might all be. I suppose he took refuge in orders and sanctimony because he had a game-leg, like your Loyola man there—what do you call him? yes, S. Ignatius—brave fellow, by the way, and a good soldier—or else he was jilted by some handsome girl.” “Nothing of the kind. His early years, his youth, his student life, and his advent in the world were all marked by a modesty, a purity, and a piety that seemed to be the sure precursor of a saintly life.”