Lucy looked at her with very serious inquiring eyes, and went home with a consciousness that there was a rivalry between Mr. St. Clair and Raymond, in which she was more or less involved. Lucy was not very quick of understanding, and neither of them had said anything to her which was quite unmistakable. Had they mentioned the words love or marriage, she would have known what she had to encounter at once; but she was not on the outlook for implied admiration, and their assiduities scarcely affected her. St. Clair was Jock’s tutor, and in constant communication with her, and, no doubt, she thought, it was Mrs. Rushton who made Raymond take so much care of her. This was a shrewd guess, as the reader knows, and, therefore she did not trouble herself about Ray’s attentions, or wonder at the devotion of St. Clair. But she had a faint uneasy feeling in her mind. The rose which she had fastened in her dress was very sweet, and kept reminding her of that scene in the garden. This pricked Lucy’s conscience a little as she drove home in the dark alone with it. It ought to have been given to Mrs. Rushton, not to her; the last Devoniensis, sweet like an echo of summer, the only one that was left. St. Clair had no right to gather it, nor she to wear it. It was a robbery in its way, and this made her uncomfortable, more uncomfortable than the accusation of flirting, of which Lucy felt innocent. The night was dark, but very soft and warm for the season, not even a star visible, everything wrapped in clouds and dimness. When the brougham stopped at the door in the Terrace, some one appeared at once to open it for her, to help her out. “Mr. St. Clair!” she cried, almost with alarm. “Yes,” he said; he was not much more than a voice and a big shadow, but still she could not have any doubt about him. “I hurried on to do my duty as Miss Trevor’s servant; they would not have let me walk home with you, but I was determined to pay my duty here.” Lucy was embarrassed by this new attention, “I am so sorry you have taken so much trouble,” she said. “I always wait till they have opened the door. Ah! here they are coming; there was no need, indeed, of any one. I am sorry you took the trouble.” “Trouble!” he said, “that is not the word. Ah, Miss Trevor, thanks! you are wearing my rose.” “Indeed!” said Lucy. “I am afraid it is not right to cut it. Mr. Raymond looked--it was the last one; and it was theirs--not ours.” “The churl!” said St. Clair; “he ought to have been too proud if you had put your foot upon it, instead of wearing it. How sweet it is! it is where it ought to be.” Then he paused, detaining her for a moment. “Yes, the door is open,” he said, with a sigh. “I can not deny it. Good-night then--till to-morrow.”