Lucy was eating her strawberries very quietly, looking with a pleased expectation at the two other volumes of the book. It seemed to her a fine thing to be an author, to have actually written all that; and she was a little proud in her own person of knowing all about him, and felt that she would now have something to talk about when Lady Randolph’s visitors tried her, as they were in the habit of doing, on divers subjects. When they talked to her about Lady Mary’s small and early party, or the duchess’s great assembly, Lucy had often found it embarrassing to repeat her humble confessions of ignorance to one after another, and to admit that she had not been there or there; and did not understand the allusions which were being made; and she did not know enough about music to speak of the opera, nor about pictures to prattle about the Exhibitions, as she heard other girls do; but now she would have something to say. “Have you seen the new novel? It is written by a gentleman we know.” With that to talk about, Lucy felt that she might even take the initiative and _begin_ the conversation with any one who did not look very clever and alarming, and this gave her a serene satisfaction. Also she was to spend the evening all by herself, and a new story was a nice companion. She was aroused from these agreeable thoughts by that “Oh-h!” uttered upon two or three notes by Lady Randolph, and looked up to see her friend’s countenance entirely changed, severe as she had never seen it before. “Did you know of this? Why did you not mention it to me?” Lady Randolph said. She was holding out the book for Lucy’s inspection, and the girl looked at it with instinctive alarm, yet all the calm of innocence. This was what she read: TO THE ANGEL OF HOPE, LUCY, TO WHOSE NAME IN REVERENCE I PREFIX NO TITLE. THIS FIRST EFFORT OF A MIND WHICH HER GENTLE ENCOURAGEMENT HAS INSPIRED WITH CONFIDENCE IS INSCRIBED. Lucy’s eyes grew round with amazement, her lips dropped apart with consternation. She looked from the book to Lady Randolph, and then to the book again. After a moment, the color rushed to her face. “Lucy! Oh, you do not suppose he means _me_?” she said aghast. “Whom could he mean else? Did you know anything about it? Lucy, don’t let me think I am deceived in you,” Lady Randolph said, with great vehemence. She was more excited than seemed necessary; but then, no doubt, she had a very serious sense of responsibility, in regard to a ward so precious. “I am very sorry,” said Lucy; “I suppose I do know; he said he would dedicate the book to me, and I said, oh, no, don’t do that; but then we spoke of something else, and I thought of it no more.”