Lucy had another visitor that evening, Tom Black, who had never failed to put in his appearance from time to time ever since that memorable Christmas Day. Tom’s visits were generally of a most cheerful not to say hilarious description, beginning with games of romps with Hugh and ending in all sorts of little services to Lucy herself. Thanks to his aid, she had really given all her books their spring dusting and had got them correctly restored to their proper places—a thing which could not have been done by Jane, who though perfectly able to read, would have stood them upside down, and scattered “sets” most recklessly. Tom always asked whether there was “anything going on that he could do?” and Lucy answered him frankly and candidly. She wondered sometimes whether the inquiry came from humility or pride—from an unnecessarily humble feeling that his presence might be less than pleasure unless it was useful, or from a proud masculine consciousness that a feminine household may often stand in need of a strong arm and a steady hand. But this evening Tom was in such doleful dumps that Lucy was quite glad that her own spirits had been somewhat cheered by Mrs. Bray’s visit. Tom had got to leave his lodgings. He had been placed, on his first arrival in London, with the elderly widow of a clerk in Mr. Challoner’s firm. She had a neat little seven-roomed house somewhere in Barnsbury, and she let two of her bedrooms and one parlour to Tom Black and another young man. It was a quiet and comfortable though unpretentious home, wherein a youth who was inclined to good habits found every influence to help his perseverance therein. Youths who were not inclined to good habits were not allowed to linger there. In her earlier and more vigorous days the worthy landlady had wrestled hard with sundry ill-doers, and not without a certain sort of success, though she herself was more inclined to regard the results with cynicism and suspicion than with self-satisfaction. When neighbours would say to her how proud she must be that So-and-so had profited by her warnings, disciplines, and encouragements, she was wont to say “that he was different from what he once was, but she wasn’t so sure that he was any better.” Being a Scots woman herself she would tell the story of the Scots minister who was of the opinion that the sight of one’s “converts” was generally calculated “to keep one humble.” Of late years, however, she had ceased to struggle with those who inclined to do evil, and had reserved herself for the upholding of those who meant to do well. “I’ve had my time of keeping a reformatory,” she had said in her quaint way, “now somebody else must take a turn!”