And then there was another pause. “I told you, Lucy,” said Mrs. Ford, “that her ladyship knew nothing about Jock, that she would never hear of taking a little boy into her house. A young lady is one thing, but a little boy--a little boy is quite different; I told you her ladyship would never hear of it.” In the satisfaction of having known it all the time, Mrs. Ford almost forgot the inconveniences or the position. Lucy sat bolt upright upon her sofa, disregarding all the fictions about necessary rest, and looked round upon them with a little spark in each of her blue eyes. “My love,” says Mrs. Stone in a low tone, “you have always intended and wished to send Jock to school; you must not forget that--” There was nothing hostile to the new reign in these two women, at least not in this respect. Their deprecation and soothing were quite sincere. But Lady Randolph was a woman who had all her wits about her. She watched every indication of the thorny new ground which she was treading with a watchful eye; and she saw that Lucy’s expression changed from that of quiet gravity and sadness into an energy which was almost impassioned. The girl’s hands caught at each other, her lips quivered, every feature moved. “He is all I have,” Lucy cried out suddenly, “everything I have! and he is such a little, little fellow. Oh, don’t mind petting me--what do I care for dresses or things? but I want Jock; oh, let me have Jock!” “Hush, hush, Lucy; hush, dear,” whispered Mrs. Stone, with sympathetic looks, and Mrs. Ford put her handkerchief to her eyes and vowed, sobbing, that she would take every care of him. They were both half frightened by the sudden vehemence which was unlike Lucy. And at this moment there was a knock at the door, and Philip Rainy put in his head. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but may I speak to Lucy for a moment? I thought you would like to know that they have no objections, Lucy--not the least objection. I am to have Jock. I told Mr. Rushton that I felt sure you would trust him to me.” Lucy felt that she had no longer any power of speech. She put her hands together instinctively, and gave Lady Randolph a piteous look; her heart swelled as if it would burst. Was it a judgment upon her for not being heart-broken, as perhaps she ought to have been, for the loss of her father? To have little Jock taken away from her was like tearing a piece of herself away. But Lady Randolph had all her wits about her. It was not likely, if the sight of this comely young man who called the heiress Lucy, had alarmed even the men upstairs, that a woman would be less alive to the danger. She took Lucy’s hand into her own, and pressed them kindly between hers.