“No, it will not be long. We might take it now, for that matter, for I don’t entertain any doubt on the subject. But Bertie is always so modest. Bertie insists that we must make quite sure. You see, Miss Trevor, a work like his, a work of imagination, succeeds at once, if it is going to succeed,” she added, with a little laugh. “Other kinds of books may take a long time to gain the public ear, but that--one knows directly. So I say to Bertie, we really might venture. It is just round the corner, Miss Trevor, a much larger, handsomer house. But, on the other hand, this is a long way from the center of everything. It might be better to move into Mayfair, or even Belgravia. He will want to be nearer the world. So, on the whole, we think it best to wait a little; and it does not do to move in the season, everything is so dear.” “And the little boys?” said Lucy. Her mind was bewildered by the contrast between what she was hearing and the visible signs of misery around. “Oh,” said Mrs. Russell, “as for Jock, you must not trouble yourself in the least. We are quite fond of him, he is such a little original. And Mary is very independent-minded; she will never take anything from her brother, though a better brother never existed! Mary will want something to occupy her, and so long as I have a roof over my head, little Jock shall never want a home. You may be quite easy on that point. I am telling Miss Trevor, Mary, that we are thinking of removing,” she said, as her daughter came in. Mary did not look in high spirits. “Are you, mamma? I should not mind the house, if other things were comfortable,” Mary said. Her eyes were heavy, as if she had been weeping, and she avoided Lucy’s look. “That is because some of the little boys are going away,” said Mrs. Russell nervously. “Mary is always so anxious. We shall be glad to rid of them, my love, when Bertie’s book is out.” Mary did not make any reply. She gave her shoulders an imperceptible shrug; and what between the daughter’s unresponsiveness and the mother’s tearful and restless profusion of words, Lucy did not know what to say. When she went out, Bertie appeared with his hat on, and a packet of papers in his hand, and walked by her as she rode slowly along the steep little street. “These are the last of the proofs,” he said to her, holding them up. “I am going to take them myself for luck. I hope you will think of me kindly, Miss Trevor, and wish me well.” “Indeed, I will. I wish it may be--the greatest success that ever was.” “Thanks; that should bring me good fortune. I want you to do me a favor too. Let me give it all the better chance by putting your happy name upon it. I am sure it is a happy name, a lucky name, bringing good,” he added fervently, “to all who invoke it.” “Indeed, Mr. Russell,” said Lucy, troubled, “I do not know what you mean.” “I want,” he said, “to dedicate it to you.”