Lucy looked at him with great respect, and even a little awe. An innocent girl has a certain awe of a man so much older than herself, so much more experienced in every way, who perhaps has had mysterious wrong-doings in his life as well as other things, more momentous and terrible than any her imagination has ever realized. The things that St. Clair might have to be ashamed of loomed large upon her in the darkness of her ignorance, like gigantic shadows, upon which she looked with pity and a little horror, yet the same time an awful respect. “Mrs. Stone told me,” she said, with her serious face, “that you had not been well; that after all your studies and work you had not been well enough-- I am very, very sorry. It must have been a great disappointment.” “That is exactly what it was; it is very sweet to meet with some one who understands,” St. Clair said; “yes, it is not so much for myself, but they had all done so much for me, all believed in me so.” “But, Mr. St. Clair, with rest and taking care, will it not all come right?” “They say so,” he said; “but, Miss Trevor, though you don’t know much of the hardships of life, you will understand that this is exactly what it is most hard to do. To rest implies means and leisure, and I ought to be working night and day.” “I am very, very sorry,” said Lucy; a great many waves of varying resolution were passing over her mind--what could she do? would it be most polite to take notice, to receive such a confidence as if it was nothing to her? or should she be bold and put forth her powers as a helper, a wrong-redresser? Jock’s story about the windmills had seemed very great nonsense to his unlettered sister, yet practically she was in a strait not dissimilar. She put her lance in rest with a very doubtful and unassured hand; but if they were giants, as they seemed, she, too, felt, like the great Spaniard, that to pass them by would be cowardly. She looked at him wistfully, faltering. “You will think it strange of me to say it,” she said, her serious face gradually crimsoning from chin to forehead; “but perhaps you know--that I am--not the same as other girls; if there were anything that I could do--” St. Clair grew red too with surprise and mortification; what could the girl mean? he asked himself; but he answered suavely, “I am sure you are a great deal better and kinder than most girls--or men either, Miss Trevor. You have the divine gift of sympathy, which always does one good.” “I don’t know if it is sympathy, Mr. St. Clair. Papa left me a great many directions. He said there were some things I was to try to do; and if it would be good for you to have leisure, and be able to rest for a year or two--” St. Clair was reduced to the level of Raymond Rushton by the utter confusion which these words seemed to bring into the very atmosphere.