Master Philip Hayn retired from his second evening in New York society with feelings very different from those which his rather heavy heart and head had carried down to Sol Mantring’s sloop only a short week before. No one called him “country” or looked curiously at his attire; on the contrary, at least one lady, in a late party that boarded the elevated train on which he was returning to his hotel, regarded him with evident admiration. Not many days before, even this sort of attention would have made him uncomfortable, but the experiences of his evening at Miss Dinon’s had impressed him with the probability that he would be to a certain degree an object of admiration, and he was already prepared to accept it as a matter of course,—very much, in fact, as he had been taught to accept whatever else which life seemed sure to bring.

Of one thing he felt sure: Lucia did not regard him unfavorably. Perhaps she did not love him,—he was modest enough to admit that there was no possible reason why she should,—yet she had not attempted to withdraw that little hand—bless it!—when he was covering it with kisses. She had appropriated him, in the loveliest way imaginable, not only once but several times during the evening, showing marked preference for him. Perhaps this was not so great a compliment as at first sight it seemed, for, hold his own face and figure in as low esteem as he might, he nevertheless felt sure that the best-looking young man in Miss Dinon’s parlors was plainer and less manly than himself. But if her acceptance of his homage and her selection of him as her cavalier were not enough, there was that jealous look, twice repeated. He informed himself that the look did not become her; it destroyed the charm of her expression; it made her appear hard and unnatural: yet he would not lose the memory of it for worlds.

Could it be true, as he had heard while unintentionally a listener, that her father was not rich? Well, he was sorry for him; yet this, too, was a ground for hope. After what he had heard, it was not impossible to believe that perhaps the father of the country youth, with his thirty or forty thousand dollars’ worth of good land, which had been prospected as a possible site for a village of sea-side cottages for rich people, might be no poorer than the father of the city girl. It seemed impossible, as he mentally compared the residences of the two families, yet he had heard more than once that city people as a class seemed always striving to live not only up to their incomes, but as far beyond them as tradesmen and money-lenders would allow.

As to the talk he had heard about Miss Dinon, he resented it, and would not think of it as in the least degree probable. To be sure, he would not believe her thirty-six, though if she were he heartily honored her that she had lived so well as to look far younger than her years. Still, he was not to be bought, even by a handsome and intelligent woman. It was not uncomplimentary, though, that any one should have thought him so attractive to Miss Dinon,—a woman whom he was sure must have had plenty of offers in her day. But should he ever chance to marry rich, what a sweet and perpetual revenge it would be upon people who had looked, and probably talked, as if he were an awkward country youth!

Then came back to him suddenly, in all their blackness, his moody thoughts over the obdurate facts in the case. Prolong his butterfly day as long as his money would allow, he must soon return to his normal condition of a country grub: he must return to the farm, to his well-worn clothes of antique cut and neighborly patches, to the care of horses, cows, pigs, and chickens, take “pot-luck” in the family kitchen instead of carefully selecting his meals from long bills of fare. Instead of attending receptions in handsome houses, he must seek society in church sociables and the hilarious yet very homely parties given by neighboring farmers, and an occasional affair, not much more formal, in the village.

It was awful, but it seemed inevitable, no matter how he tortured his brain in trying to devise an alternative. If he had a little money he might speculate in stocks; there, at least, he might benefit by his acquaintance with Marge; but all the money he had would not more than maintain him in New York a fortnight longer, and he had not the heart to ask his father for more. His father!—what could that good, much-abused man be already thinking of him, that no word from the traveller had yet reached Hayn Farm? He would write that very night—or morning, late though it was; and he felt very virtuous as he resolved that none of the discontent that filled him should get into his letter.

It was nearly sunrise when he went to bed. From his window, eight floors from the ground, he could see across the ugly house-tops a rosy flush in the east, and some little clouds were glowing with gold under the blue canopy. Rose, blue, gold,—Lucia’s cheeks, her eyes, her hair; he would think only of them, for they were his delight; his misery could wait: it would have its control of him soon enough.

* * * * * * * *

“Margie, Margie, wake up!” whispered Lucia to her slumbering sister, on returning from the Dinon party.

“Oh, dear!” drawled the sleeper; “is it breakfast-time so soon?”

“No, you little goose; but you want to hear all about the party, don’t you?”

“To be sure I do,” said the sister, with a long yawn and an attempt to sit up. Miss Margie had heard that she was prettier than her elder sister; she knew she was admired, and she was prudently acquiring all possible knowledge of society against her approaching “coming out.” “Tell me all about it. Who was there?” continued the drowsy girl, rubbing her eyes, pushing some crinkly hair behind her ears, and adjusting some pillows so that she might sit at ease. Then she put her hands behind her head, and exclaimed, “Why don’t you go on? I’m all ears.”

Lucia laughed derisively as she pulled an ear small enough, almost, to be a deformity, then tossed wraps and other articles of attire carelessly about, dropped into a low rocker, and said,—

“Only the usual set were there. I danced every dance, of course, and there was plenty of cream and coffee. Agnes and her mother know how to entertain: it’s a real pleasure to go to supper there. But I’ve kept the best to the last. There was one addition to the usual display of young men,—a tall, straight, handsome, manly, awfully stylish fellow, that set all the girls’ tongues running. You’ve seen him, but I’ll bet you a pound of candy that you can’t guess his name.”

“Oh, don’t make me guess when I’m not wide awake yet. Who was it?”

“It—was—Philip—Hayn!” said Lucia, so earnestly that she seemed almost tragical.

“Lucia Tramlay!” exclaimed Margie, dropping her chin and staring blankly. “Not that country fellow who used to drive us down to the beach at Haynton?”

“The very same; but he’s not a country fellow now. Upon my word, I shouldn’t have known him, if I hadn’t known he had been invited and would probably come. I was in terror lest he would come dressed as he did to our reception last week, and the girls would get over their admiration of his talk and tease me about him. But you never in your life saw so splendid-looking a fellow,—you really didn’t. And he was very attentive to me: he had to be; I took possession of him from the first. He doesn’t dance, so I couldn’t keep him dangling, but I had him to myself wherever men could be most useful. Margie, what are you looking so wooden about?”

“The idea!” said Margie, in a far-away voice, as if her thoughts were just starting back from some distant point. “That heavy, sober fellow becoming a city beau! It’s like Cinderella and the princess. Do pinch me, so I may be sure I’m not dreaming.”

“Margie,” whispered Lucia, suddenly seating herself on the bedside, and, instead of the desired pinch, burying her cheek on a pillow close against her sister’s shoulder, “after he had put me into the carriage he kissed my hand,—oh, ever so many times.”

“Why, Lucia Tramlay! Where was papa?”

“He hadn’t come down yet.”

“Goodness! What did you say or do?”

“What could I? Before I could think at all, ’twas all over and he was in the house.”

“That country boy a flirt!” exclaimed Margie, going off into blankness again.

“He isn’t a flirt at all,” replied Lucia, sharply. “You ought to have learned, even in the country, that Philip Hayn is in earnest in whatever he says or does.”

“Oh, dear!” moaned Margie; “I don’t want countrymen making love to my sister.”

“I tell you again, Margie, that he’s simply a splendid gentleman,—the handsomest and most stylish of all whom Agnes Dinon invited,—and I won’t have him abused when he’s been so kind to me.”

“Lu,” said Margie, turning so as to give one of Lucia’s shoulders a vigorous shake, “I believe you think Phil Hayn is in love with you!”

“What else can I think?” said Lucia, without moving her head. Her sister looked at her in silence a moment, and replied,—

“A good deal more, you dear little wretch: you can think you’re in love with him, and, what is more, you are thinking so this very minute. Confess, now!”

Lucia was silent; she did not move her head, except to press it deeper into the pillow, nor did she change her gaze from the wall on the opposite side of the room: nevertheless, she manifested undoubted signs of guilt. Her sister bent over her, embraced her, covered her cheek with kisses, and called her tender names, some of which had been almost unheard since nursery days. When at last Lucia allowed her eyes to be looked into, her sister took both her hands, looked roguish, and said,—

“Say, Lu, how does it feel to be in love? Is it anything like what novels tell about?”

“Don’t ask me,” exclaimed Lucia, “or I shall have a fit of crying right away.”

“Well, I’ll let you off—for a little while, if you’ll tell me how it feels to have your hand kissed.”

“It feels,” said Lucia, meditatively, “as if something rather heavy was pressing upon your glove.”

“Ah, you’re real mean!” protested the younger girl. “But what will papa and mamma say? And how are you going to get rid of Mr. Marge? I give you warning that you needn’t turn him over to me when I come out. I detest him.”

“I don’t want to get rid of him,” said Lucia, becoming suddenly very sober. “Of course I couldn’t marry Phil if he were to ask me,—not if he’s going to stay poor and live out of the world.”

“But you’re not going to be perfectly awful, and marry one man while you love another?”

“I’m not going to marry anybody until I’m asked,” exclaimed Lucia, springing from the bed, wringing her hands, and pacing the floor; “and nobody has asked me yet; I don’t know that anybody ever will. And I’m perfectly miserable; if you say another word to me about it I shall go into hysterics. Nobody ever heard anything but good of Phil Hayn, either here or anywhere else, and if he loves me I’m proud of it, and I’m going to love him back all I like, even if I have to break my heart afterward. He shan’t know how I feel, you may rest assured of that. But oh, Margie, it’s just too dreadful. Mamma has picked out Mr. Marge for me,—who could love such a stick?—and she’ll be perfectly crazy if I marry any one else, unless perhaps it’s some one with a great deal more money. I wonder if ever a poor girl was in such a perfectly horrible position?”

Margie did not know, so both girls sought consolation in the ever-healing fount of maidenhood,—a good long cry.