“Oh!” said Lucy, with a heave of her breast; but though her heart rose and the color came to her cheeks, she had not sufficient power of language to communicate her sentiments, and she was grateful to St. Clair, who interposed. “Do you think,” he said, “that any one is good, as you say, for what he gets? One is good because one can’t help it--or for the pleasure of it--or to please some one else if it does not please one’s self.” “For shame, Frank, you take all the merit out of goodness,” his aunt said. “Oh, no!” Lucy breathed out of the bottom of her heart. She could not argue, but her soft eyes turned upon St. Clair with gratitude. Perhaps he was not quite right either, but he was far more right than Mrs. Stone. “Miss Trevor agrees with me,” he said quietly, as if that settled the question; and Lucy would not have been human had she not been gratified, and flattered, and happy. She looked at him with a silent glow of thanks in her eyes, even though in her heart she felt a slight rising of ridicule, as if it could matter whether she agreed or not! “This is all very fine,” said Mrs. Stone, “but practically it remains certain that the people who merit your kindness are those to whom you ought to give it, Lucy. I did not know your father had left instructions about your charities.” “He did not quite mean charities,” said Lucy; “it was that I should help people who wanted help. He thought we--owed it, having so much: and I think so too.” “And therefore you were meditating a pension to the first beggar that came in your way. My dear child! you will be eaten up by beggars if you begin with this wild liberality.” “It was not exactly--a beggar; it is not that I mean.” “I will tell you what to do,” said Mrs. Stone, “take the names of the people who apply to you, and bring them to me. I will have the cases thoroughly sifted. We have really a very good organization for all that kind of thing in Farafield, and I promise you, Lucy, that if there is any very hard case, or circumstances which are very pitiful, even though the applicant be not quite deserving, you shall decide for yourself and give if you wish to give; but do let them be sifted first.” Lucy said nothing; to have “cases” which should be “sifted” by Mrs. Stone, did not seem at all to correspond with her instructions; and again it was St. Clair who came to her aid. “The holidays are very nearly over,” he said, “and we have a little problem of our own to settle. Do you know, Miss Trevor, my aunt meditates sending me away.” “Oh!” cried Lucy, with alarm. She turned instinctively to Jock, who was roaming about the common before them. “But what should we do then?” she said, with simplicity. The guardians had not yet interfered about Jock’s training; they had left the little fellow in her hands; and Lucy was very much solaced and comforted by the arrangement in respect to her little brother which St. Clair’s delicate health had permitted her to make.