“Perhaps it is me, Mrs. Stone.” “You should say I, my love. Yes, no doubt it is you, Lucy. It could not be otherwise; you have been in so different a sphere, and how could you help feeling it? I think I can understand you. Lady Randolph is--well, I don’t know what she is. I confess that I have a little prejudice against her.” “Indeed, you should not have any prejudice,” said Lucy earnestly; “she is so good and so kind--oh, far too good and kind for anything I deserve.” “Yes,” said Mrs. Stone with a smile. “I understand; a woman with a great deal of tact, Lucy, who knows what is best for you, and takes her measures accordingly; oh, yes, I am quite sure Lady Randolph is highly refined, and a thorough lady, and would do nothing that was unbecoming, whereas our good Mrs. Ford is just-- Mrs. Ford, and a very good woman. I think it would have been better, Lucy--we have all our little vanities--if your excellent father had sent you to me.” “Yes,” said Lucy with a sigh; but there was no enthusiasm in the assent. Mrs. Stone was slightly disappointed. She gave the girl’s arm a soft pressure. “You must let us help you to get through this second beginning: things will never be so bad again. You will get used to the alteration, and your interests will spring up. What are you doing about little Jock, my dear?” “Nothing,” said Lucy; “he is still so little, and I have no one else. Do you think, really, I ought to send him, such a little fellow, away from me to some _real_ school? He was at Mrs. Russell’s, but that was not like a real school, and I went to see him whenever I liked.” “Ah! perhaps too often,” said Mrs. Stone, with another pressure of her young friend’s arm. “I have something to say about that after. But, Lucy, listen. I will tell you what I was thinking. Frank St. Clair, whom you may remember, my nephew, is coming to stay with me again. He is not very well, poor fellow! I will tell you his story some time. He has been unfortunate.” “He who was so kind, who came to see papa?” “Your father interested him so much, dear! He used to come back and tell me all the clever acute things he said. Yes, Frank St. Clair. This is one of my disappointments, Lucy, Frank was the pride of all our family. We all seemed to have a share in him; his father died young, his mother was poor, and we all helped. He was the cleverest boy I ever saw. At school he was _extraordinary_; no one could stand against him, and you can imagine how proud we all were. Am I boring you with my story, Lucy?” “How could you think so? I am like Jock about a story; there is nothing I like so much, especially if at the end there is was anything--anything that could be done.”