"The master's upstairs with Mrs. Kemp. She's got a chill, but I'll tell him you're here, sir," and Oliver had been shown as a matter of course into the panelled parlour where Lucy sat reading alone. The very sight of the girl seemed to bring with it peace--restored in subtle measure the young man's good opinion of himself. And then she seemed so simply, so unaffectedly glad to see him! Within the next hour, he was gradually brought to tell her, both of the long talk with Berwick--Lucy had proved an apt student of political economy within the last year--even of the proposed newspaper and the editorship, of which the offer, coming from anyone else, would, he said, "have tempted me." "Ah! but you think Mr. Berwick ought not to start such a paper--that it might do him harm?" Lucy looked up with quick intelligent eyes. Boringdon had scarcely said so,--in so many words,--yet, yet--certainly yes, that was what he had meant, and so, "Exactly!" he exclaimed; "and if I don't join in, the scheme will probably come to nothing." Lucy allowed her softened gaze to linger on the face of the man who had gradually made his way into her steadfast heart. How good, how noble he was, she thought, and, how unconscious of his own goodness and nobility! The girl was in that stage of her mental development when the creature worshipped must necessarily appear heroic. Two men now fulfilled Lucy's ideal--the one was her father, the other Oliver Boringdon. Poor Laxton, with his humble passion for herself, his half-pretended indifference to the pleasures and duties of the British officer's life in time of profound peace, his love of hunting and rough out-door games,--all seemed to make him most unheroic in Lucy's eyes. She was dimly aware that Captain Laxton's love for her was instinctive, that he was attracted in spite of himself; and the knowledge perplexed and angered her. She knew well, or thought she knew well, the sort of woman with whom the young soldier ought to have fallen in love,--the well-dressed, amusing, "smart" (odious word, just then coming into fashion!) type of girl, whom he undoubtedly, even as it was, much admired. But Oliver Boringdon--oh! how different would be the natural ideal of such a man. Lucy was only now beginning to see into her own heart, and she still believed that her regard for Boringdon was "friendship." Who could hesitate as to which was the better part--friendship with Boringdon, or marriage with Laxton? "I--I want to ask you something." Lucy's heart was beating fast. "Yes, what is it?" He turned sharply round. "I've been reading the life of Edmund Burke." He bent forward eagerly. "It's interesting, isn't it?" "Yes, yes, indeed it is! But I want to ask you why a hundred years have made such a change? Why it is that now a young man who has every aptitude for political life----" Lucy hesitated, the words were not really her own, they had been suggested--almost put into her mouth--by Oliver's mother.