great number of highly advanced, very cultured and superior feminine people; but yet here and there will arise one, still more advanced and cultured, who loves the old-fashioned weapon, and speaks of it as a sacred implement of life. Lucy followed first one opinion and then another. She had half a dozen pieces of work about, begun under the influence of one class of her friends, abandoned under that of another. She had a little studio, too, where she painted and carved, and executed various of the humbler decorative arts, which, perhaps, to tell the truth, she enjoyed more than art proper; but these details of the young lady’s life may be left to show themselves where there is no need of such vanities. Lucy was, at all events, whatever her other qualities might be, a most enthusiastic friend. “Well, I suppose we shall see her, and find out, as Lucy says, for ourselves--not that it is of much importance,” the brother said, who had begun this conversation. “Oh! but it is of a great deal of importance,” cried Lucy. “Mrs. Nugent is my chief friend. She is mother’s prime favorite. She is the nicest person in the neighborhood. She is here constantly, or I am there. If you mean not to like her, you might as well, without making any fuss about it, go away.” “Lucy!” cried Mrs. Wradisley, moved to indignation, and dropping all the white fabric of wool on her knees, “your brother--and just come home after all these years!” “What nonsense! Of course I don’t mean that in the least,” Lucy cried. “Ralph knows--_of course_, I would rather have him than--all the friends in the world.”