And a few minutes after Lucy found herself walking by Ray, who was very shy, and had not a notion what to say to her, nor had she what to say to him. He took her along a commonplace path, and showed her the flower-beds--that is to say, he intimated, with a wave of his hand and a blush, that here were the roses, and there--“I’m sure I don’t know what you call these things,” Ray said. “Are you not very fond of flowers, then? I thought Mrs. Rushton--” “Oh, yes, I’m very fond of them--some, you know; but I never can remember the names; it is like songs-- I’m very fond of music, but I never can remember the words.” This was a long speech, and he felt better after it. However little inclined you may feel to do your duty, there is a sense of satisfaction in having done it. “Do you sing?” he added, emboldened by his own success. “No,” Lucy said; and then the poor young fellow was balked, and the path which seemed to be opening before him was cut suddenly short. He gave a sigh of disappointment, and plunged his hands deeper than ever into his pockets to seek inspiration there. “Mamma thinks we should go out to-morrow,” he said. “Yes?” This monosyllable was interrogative, and gave him encouragement. He cleared his throat again. “I could show you some very nice rides--the way to the picnic on Thursday is very pretty. Were you ever at the old abbey at Burnside? Quantities of people go--” “I have passed it,” said Lucy, “when we rode at school.” “Oh, did you ride at school? I don’t think that could be much fun--all girls. Picnics are not very much fun either.” “I never saw one. I should think it would be nice,” said Lucy, with some doubt. “Oh, well, perhaps if you were never at one before-- I dare say it will be nice when--when _you_ are there, Miss Trevor,” said Ray, growing very red; “but then you see I never went with you before.” Lucy looked at him with some surprise, totally unable to divine why he should flourish so wildly the croquet-mallet he was carrying, and blush and stammer so much. She was entirely unaware that she had assisted at the production of Raymond’s first compliment. She took it very quietly, not knowing its importance. “My mother thinks Emmie can ride,” he went on, after a confused pause; “but she can’t a bit. Some girls are famous--take fences, and everything you can put before them. There are the Morton girls-- I suppose you know the Mortons?” “I don’t know any one--except the girls who were at school.” “Oh, there were some great swells, were there not,” said Raymond, “at that school?” Perhaps for the first time Lucy felt a little pleasure in repeating the names of her school-fellows, information which Raymond received with awe. “That’s a cut above us,” he said; “they were all awfully angry at home because the old ladies wouldn’t have Emmie. I suppose you were different.”