When the hour of tea was over Mr. Rushton walked home with Lucy to see his old friend. John Trevor was not Mr. Rushton’s equal, nor did he treat him as such. The old school master had taught him arithmetic, that neglected branch of education, thirty or forty years ago, before he went to the public school, where it was not taught; and the prosperous lawyer, who was town clerk, and one of the principal men in Farafield, had always shown a great regard for his old master. “I should never have known more than two times two but for you, Trevor,” he would say, patting the old man on the shoulder, not very respectful, yet with genuine kindness. He went into the blue and white drawing-room, and seated himself in front of the fire, and talked for an hour to old Trevor, liberating Lucy, who hurried away to Mrs. Ford’s parlor, and with enviable confidence in her digestion, had another cup of tea to please Jock, who had been watching for her eagerly from the window. Then she was made to sit down in a creaking basket-work chair beside the fire and tell him stories. Mrs. Ford’s parlor was not æsthetic, like that of Mrs. Stone; but its horse-hair and mahogany furniture produced an effect not much unlike. Mrs. Ford, in a black arm-chair, was elevated as high above the heads of the younger people as if she had been seated in a genuine Chippendale chair. And she crossed her hands on her black silk apron, and sitting back in the shadow, listened well pleased, but half in a drowse of comfort, to Lucy’s stories. She had a little rest in her own person when Lucy stepped into the breach; though Mrs. Ford was not at all certain that Lucy’s stories were Sunday stories worthy of the name. Old Trevor had the will spread out before him when Mr. Rushton entered--not adding to it, however, which he would have certainly disapproved of as improper Sunday work--but reading it over, some times aloud, sometimes under his breath, sometimes with mutterings of criticism. He pushed it away a his visitor entered, and rose tottering to welcome him. “Always going on with it, always going on with it,” the new-comer said, shaking his hand. “Yes, I always go on with it,” cried old Trevor, with a chuckle; “it’s my _magnum opus_, Mr. Rushton. I add a bit most days, and on Sunday I read over my handiwork, and study how I can mend it. I have put you in,” he added, with a great many nods of his head. “What, for a legacy, Trevor?” said Mr. Rushton, with an easy laugh. “For a legacy if you like,” said old Trevor, “though I don’t suppose a hundred pounds would be much to you. No, not for money, but for the care of my girl, who is money. Ford down-stairs is always dinning into my ears that somebody will marry her for her fortune. I hope Lucy has more sense; but still, in case of anything happening, I want her to have friends to advise her.”