Thinner and thinner became the roll of bank-notes in Philip Hayn’s pocket; nearer and nearer came the day when he must depart from the city,—depart without any hope that he might ever return. The thought was intolerable; but what could be done to banish it? He might again, and several times, make excuses to leave home and come to New York for a day or two, perhaps on Sol Mantring’s sloop, and keep up after a fashion the acquaintance he had made, but to remain in the city any length of time, and spend money as he had been doing, was not to be thought of: the money could not be taken from the family purse, or saved in any way that he could devise.

Oh that he might speculate! Oh that the people who had thought of Hayn Farm as a site for a cottage village would make haste to decide and purchase, so the family’s property might be in money instead of land,—solid earth, which could not be spent while in its earthy condition. Oh that he might at least find occupation in New York; he would deny himself anything for the sake of replacing himself on the farm by a laborer, who would be fully as useful with two hands as he, if he might remain in the city. Why had he never had the sense to study any business but farming? There were two stores and a factory at Haynton; had he taken employment in either of these, as he had been invited to do, he might have learned something that would be of avail in New York.

But, alas! it was too late. He must go back to the farm,—go away from Lucia. How should he say farewell to her? Could he ask her to accept an occasional letter from him, and to reply? Would the Tramlays want to spend the next summer at Hayn Farm, he wondered? Should they come, and Lucia see him carrying a pail of pea-pods to the pigsty, or starting off with oil-skins and a big black basket for a day’s fishing off shore, would not her pretty lip curl in disdain? Or if the family wanted to go to the beach for a bath, would he come in from the fields in faded cotton shirt and trousers and bandless old straw hat to drive them down?

No; none of these things should occur. The Tramlays should not again board at Hayn Farm, unless he could manage in some way to be away from home at the time. He would oppose it with all his might. And, yet, what could he say by way of explanation to his parents? There are some things that one cannot explain,—not if one is a young man who has suddenly had his head turned by change of scene.

How he should say farewell to Lucia troubled him a great deal, particularly as the time was approaching rapidly. To tell her of his love would be unmanly, while he was unable to carry love forward to its natural fruition; but, on the other hand, would it be right for him to take mere friendly leave after having betrayed himself over her hand at the carriage window? And if her manifestations of jealousy at the Dinon party meant anything more than mere desire to monopolize his attention, would she not hate him if he went away without some expression of tenderness?

The longer he cudgelled his wits, the more inactive they became. He resolved to call at once, and trust to chance, and perhaps a merciful Providence, to help him to a proper leave-taking. He wondered if she would be at home: he had heard her recapitulate a succession of engagements which seemed to him to dispose of a week of afternoons and evenings. He would seek her father, and ask him when Lucia could be found at home. He acted at once upon the impulse, but Tramlay was not at his office. As the time was about noon, Phil strolled to the restaurant to which the iron-merchant had taken him. Tramlay was not there, so the young man took a seat and ordered luncheon. Just as it was served, Marge passed him, without seeing him, and a young man at a table behind Phil said to his companion,—

“That Marge is a lucky dog. Have you heard that he’s going to marry Tramlay’s daughter? She’ll be rich: iron is looking up.”

“Is that so?” asked the other. “When did it come out?”

“I don’t know whether it’s announced yet,” was the reply, “but one of the fellows at the bank told me, and I suppose he got it from Marge: he knows him very well.”

Phil’s appetite departed at once: it seemed to him his life would accompany it. His mind was in a daze; his heart was like lead. His feelings reached his face, and, abstracted and stupid though he felt, he could not help seeing that he was attracting attention, so he paid his bill, went out, and hurried along the street. The first distinct impression of which he was conscious was that there need no longer be any doubt about how to say good-by to Lucia; a formal courteous note would suffice: he would not trust himself to meet her. Could he blame her? No: he certainly had no claim upon her heart, nor any reason to really believe she had regarded him as more than a pleasant acquaintance. She had let him kiss her hand; but had not she herself taught him that this was merely an old-time form of salutation? She had the right to marry whom she would; yet Marge—— The thought of that man—that lazy, listless, cold, dry stick—being bound for life to a merry, sensitive soul like Lucia drove him almost mad.

Well, the blow was a blessing in one way: now he could go back to the farm without any fears or hesitation. Go back?—yes, he would hasten back: he could not too soon put behind him the city and all its memories. After all, it was not the city he had dreaded to leave; it was Lucia, and whatever through her seemed necessary. Now that she must be forgotten, all else might go. He would go back to the hotel, pack his clothes,—how he longed for the money they had cost him!—write a line to Lucia, and take the first train for home. Home! How shamefully he had forgotten it in the past fortnight! Perhaps this disappointment was his punishment: if so, although severe, it was no more than just. Home! Why, he would rejoice to be once more inside his dirty oil-skin fishing-clothes,—to obliterate the city man he had been aping for a fortnight. Heaven had evidently intended him to be a drudge: well, heaven’s will should be done.

Thus reasoned the spirit; but the flesh did not rapidly conform to its leader’s will. Phil’s teeth and lips were twitching; he felt it was so; he noticed that people stared at him, just as they did while he was in the restaurant. This at least he could escape, and he would: so he turned into the first side-street, to avoid the throng. Within a moment he feared he was losing his reason, for it seemed to him that people were pursuing him. There certainly was an unusual clatter of hurrying feet behind him, but—pshaw!—it was probably a crowd running to a fire or a fight. The noise increased; several wild yells arose, and some one shouted, “Stop thief!” Then Phil’s heart stopped beating, for a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He started violently aside, but there was no shaking off the grasp of that heavy hand: he looked wildly around, and into the eyes of his father.

“Bless you, old boy, how—how fast you do walk!” panted the old man. “I was ’way up—on the other side of the road when—when I saw you turnin’ down here. Sol Mantring said I wouldn’t know you—if I saw you. Why—I knowed you at first sight.”

“Wot’s he done?” bleated a small boy in front, for the crowd had already surrounded the couple.

“What’s who done?” asked the old man, angrily, after he had looked around and seen the crowd. “Why, you tarnal loafers, can’t a man run down the road to catch up with his own son without you thinkin’ there’s somethin’ wrong? I’ve heerd that in New York ev’ry man suspects ev’ry other man of bein’ a thief. Git out! go about your business, if you’ve got any.”

The crowd, looking sadly disappointed and disgusted, slowly dispersed, one very red-faced man remarking that the entire proceeding had been “a durned skin.”

The father and son walked along until comparatively alone; then the father said,—

“Somethin’s wrong, old boy. What is it?”

Phil did not reply.

“Out of money, an’ afraid to send me word?”

“No,” Phil replied.

“Then it’s her, eh?”

Phil nodded. His father squeezed his hand, and after a moment continued,—

“Proposed to her, an’ been refused?”

“No,” said Phil: “another man has proposed, and been accepted.”

“Dear! dear!” sighed the old man. “An’ she’s dead in love with him, I s’pose?”

“I never saw any sign of it,” said Phil, his face wrinkling. “I don’t see how she can: he’s a dry old stick.”

“Rich?”

“Um—m—I don’t know,” said Phil.

“Know him?”

“Yes, a little. Mr. Tramlay says he lives on his income.”

“Easy enough for a bachelor to do that in New York,” said the old man, “an’ still not have much.”

They walked in silence a few minutes; then the old man continued,—

“Sure you weren’t mistaken, bub?”

“About what?”

“Sure you reelly fell in love? Sure you warn’t only in a fit of powerful admiration? Lots of young fellers get took in that way an’ spend a lifetime bein’ sorry for it.”

Phil shook his head.

“She’s mighty good-lookin’; I know it. I can take in the p’ints of a gal as good as if she was a colt. Good stock in her, too; that father of hern is full of grit an’ go, an’ her mother’s a lady. Still, you might have been kind o’ upset, an’ not knowed your own mind as well as you might.”

“Father,” said Phil, “you remember what you’ve often said about your horse Black Billy?—‘There’s only one horse in the world, and that’s Billy.’ Well, for me there’s only one girl in the world,—Lucia.”

“That’s the Hayn blood, all over,” said the old man, with a laugh that grated harshly on Phil’s ear.

“And I’ve lost her,” Phil continued. “Don’t let’s talk about her any more. Don’t remind me of her.”

“Don’t remind you?” shouted the old man, stopping short on the sidewalk. “See here, young man,” the father continued, shaking his forefinger impressively, “if I was you, an’ felt like you, do you know what I’d do?”

“No,” said Phil, amazed at this demonstration by a man whom he scarcely ever had seen excited.

“Well, sir, I’d stay right on the ground, an’ I’d cut that other feller out, or I’d die a-tryin’. You’ll never be good for anythin’ if you don’t do one thing or t’other.”

Phil smiled feebly, and replied, “You don’t understand: there are a great many obstacles that I can’t explain.”

“‘There’s a lion in the way, says the slothful man: I shall be slain,’” quoted the old man, from the Book which he had accepted as an all-sufficient guide to faith and practice.

“I’ve made a fool of myself,” said Phil, sullenly, “and I want to go home and take my punishment. I want to go by the first train I can get. I’ve a long list of things I’ve promised to buy for different people, but I can’t endure New York another day.”

The old man studied his son’s face keenly for a while, as they resumed their walk; then he said, gently,—

“Perhaps it’s best that way. Go ahead. Give me your list, an’ I’ll ’tend to it. I’ll take a day or two in New York myself: it’s a long time since I had one. Give us the list; and get out.”

Phil fumbled in his pockets for the memoranda that he had neglected so long. Then a new fear came to him, and he said,—

“Father, you know about everything, and can do almost anything you attempt, but don’t go to trying to mend this wretched affair of mine: If I——”

“What?” interrupted the old man. “Meddle in a love-scrape? Have I got to be this old to be suspected by my son of bein’ an old fool? No, sir; I never did any love-makin’ except for myself, an’ I’m not goin’ to begin now. You go home an’ brace up; I reckon you need a mouthful of country air to set your head right.”