The effect of this conversation was, that she started in a much less cheerful and hopeful state of mind for that yearly renovation at Homburg. She tried to make a parting effort for Sir Tom, when she said good-bye to Lucy, who was to leave by a later train. “If Tom stays at the Hall, and there is anything you want advice about, never hesitate to apply to him, my love,” she said; “you may have every confidence in him, as much confidence as in myself.” “Oh, yes, Lady Randolph,” said Lucy, with the warmest sincerity. “I should ask him anything--he has always been so kind to me.” “It is more than kindness--he has a real interest in you, Lucy; and you need never fear to trust Tom. He has a heart of gold, and he is the truest friend in the world,” Lady Randolph said. She kissed her charge with fervor. Could she say more? When she turned round who should be watching her but Tom himself, with that twinkle in his eye. The poor lady felt as if she had been detected. She made her exit quite crestfallen, while Sir Thomas paused to tell Lucy he would come back for her half an hour before the train started. “It is not everybody that would make himself a railway porter for your service, is it, Miss Lucy?” he said, laughing. “Depend upon it, however specious other people may look, it is ‘Codlin’s the friend.’” He went out after his aunt, still laughing; but as for Lucy, she looked after him somewhat bewildered. Her reading was not her strong point, and she could not think what “Codlin” had to do with it, or who that personage was. But what a different Lucy it was that took possession of a special carriage reserved for her own party, to Farafield, with her maid and mountain of luggage, from the humble little Lucy, with two black frocks, who had come to town with Lady Randolph in February. Her groom, with her horses and Jock’s pony, had gone the night before. Jock himself, embracing a big book, was the thing of all her surroundings that was the least changed. Lucy’s mind, indeed, was not altered, as were her outward circumstances, but it had expanded and widened, so that she became a little giddy as the journey approached its close, half pleased, half alarmed to think of the old life, the familiar streets, the old white parlor with its blue curtains, and the view from the window across the common to Mrs. Stone’s school. Sir Thomas, who had traveled with her part of the way, now departing to the smoking-carriage, now coming to inquire into her comfort and the progress she was making in the novel with which he had thoughtfully provided her, joined the party at the last important station. “You have scarcely read twenty pages,” he said, reproachfully, “after all my care in choosing you a pretty book. You have read five times as much, Jock.”