Mr. Marge reached New York with only the distinct impression that he would like at once to turn his single bit of real estate into cash, shake the dust of the city from his feet forever, and begin life and business anew at some place where he was not known, and where the disgrace—as it seemed to him—of his altered fortunes would be unknown to any one. There was his interest in the Haynton Bay property, to be sure, but he cursed the day he had ever put nearly two thousand dollars into property which at best would not be likely to return any amount of cash for years to come. He might sell that also; but who would buy it? Nobody knew much about it but the other owners; of these, two were Tramlay and Phil, to neither of whom would he admit that he needed money: he would rather lose all he had invested. As for Agnes Dinon, who held most of the remaining shares, he could not make a business-offer to a woman who had refused his hand and heart several years before.

Perhaps his broker had saved something for him from the wreck. Marge sought an obscure hotel instead of going to his apartments or his club, and, fearing even to meet any one he knew on Wall Street, went to his broker’s house by night. The interview was not satisfactory: the broker had not only been obliged to close Marge’s account, but, infected by his customer’s success, had operated so largely in E. & W. on his own account that he also had been ruined, and contemplated selling his seat in the Exchange so as to make good some of his indebtedness to members.

As for E. & W., instead of recovering it had gone lower and lower, until operations in it almost ceased. The president, utterly ruined, retired from office, turned over all his property to his creditors, and went abroad to recover his shattered health or to die, he did not much care which.

Marge sold his house at auction, and, while wearily awaiting the circumlocution of “searching title” which necessarily preceded his getting full payment, he betook himself to Boston. To avoid speculation was impossible, it had been his life for years; and, as he found mining-shares were within his reach, he began again to operate, in a small way. The little he had seen of mines while on the fateful E. & W. excursion was so much more than the majority of those about him knew on the subject that he made a few lucky turns, and he finally interested some acquaintances in a promising silver property he had seen in the West. His acquaintances succeeded in getting the property “listed” at one of the New York exchanges, and Marge, with new hopes and a great deal of desperation, risked nearly all he had on the Brighthope mine.

The scheme worked finely for some weeks. It was skilfully managed by the Bostonians interested; they even succeeded in getting a great deal about it into the newspapers of both cities. But—alas for the wickedness of human nature!—one day the company were horrified to learn that their title to the property was hopelessly defective. When this fact became indisputable, Brighthope stock tumbled farther than E. & W.,—tumbled utterly out of sight; and all the assets of the company, except the safe and two desks, were sold to a paper-stock dealer at a cent a pound.

Then Marge thought seriously of suicide. He had but a thousand or two dollars left: how could he operate in anything on that small sum and support himself besides? He could add something to the sum by selling his horses and carriage, but such things always had to go at a sacrifice; besides, there would be a terrible bill to be paid for the maintenance of the animals during the two or three months in which he had been absent from New York.

Still, the thought of suicide did not improve on acquaintance. While there was life there was hope. Why shouldn’t he go back to New York, brave everything, and start anew to the best of his ability? Other men had pocketed their pride; and, although his own pride was frightfully large to be submitted to such treatment, he did not know that the operation would give him any more discomfort than he was already enduring.

The thought resolved itself into decision when one day he chanced to meet in Boston a New Yorker with whom he had a casual acquaintance. After a little chat the man, who had been away from the city for months, remarked,—

“You’re not married yet?”

“No,” said Marge, with a grim smile.

“I thought I had heard that you were engaged to Miss Tramlay; and I wanted to congratulate you. An iron-house traveller whom I met a short time ago told me that Tramlay was getting rich very fast.”

“I supposed,” said Marge, with a dawn of interest, “that Miss Tramlay was to marry young Hayn.”

“What! that country clerk of her father’s?” said the man, with the confidence born of ignorance. “Nonsense! why, it seems only the other day that I heard some one laughing about that fellow’s infatuation. Oh, no; now that they’re rich, they’ll want to marry their daughter to some one of social standing: indeed, I heard some one say as much. The mother is very ambitious in that line, you know.”

Marge soon excused himself, lit a strong cigar, and betook himself to a solitary walk and some hard thinking. There was perhaps a grand point to be made on that fellow’s suggestion. From what he knew of Mrs. Tramlay,—and he informed himself that no one knew that lady better,—he would not be surprised if an approved society man might now be entirely welcome as a husband for Lucia, even if he were as poor as a church mouse. And Lucia herself—had she not always longed for larger and more prominent society than she had yet enjoyed?

Before his cigar was burned out, Marge had bought a ticket for New York, determined to make a bold stroke for fortune where he felt that he had at heart one faithful friend to aid him. His imagination and pride combined to cheer him on; he would reappear at Tramlay’s, see how the land lay, and if the signs were encouraging he would propose at once, first taking Mrs. Tramlay into his confidence. He had lost enough by hesitation; now he would adopt entirely new tactics, and there was no pleasanter way to begin than by proposing to Lucia. As he had told himself before, she was a very pretty girl, and fully competent, with such guidance as he would give her, to make the most of her new advantages.

Reaching New York at nightfall, he lost no time in dressing with extreme care and making his way to the Tramlay abode. He would have no difficulty in explaining his long absence to the ladies; perhaps they had heard of his disaster in E. & W., but he could tell them that he had been largely interested in a rich silver-mine ever since. There would be nothing untrue in that statement; had he not been so deeply interested that he could not sleep a wink during the week while the title to the Brighthope mine—curse the rocky hole!—was first in doubt? Besides, women were sure to talk, and equally sure not to diminish the size of a story while telling it: quite likely his tale, repeated by Mrs. Tramlay and Lucia, might have the effect of restoring him to the regard of the many people who estimate a man solely by his money.

As he entered the house he was satisfied that his operations would not be postponed by the announcement “not at home,” for through the open door he heard familiar voices in the rear of the parlor, and he saw several heads bent over a table. None of them seemed to belong to strangers: so he entered with the freedom to which long acquaintance entitled him. The backs of the entire party were towards him, so his presence was not observed: besides, an animated discussion seemed to be going on between Lucia and Margie.

“I think you’re real mean,” he heard Margie say. Then he heard Lucia reply,—

“No, I’m not. Am I, mamma?”

“No,” said Mrs. Tramlay, as Marge approached close enough to see that they were looking at the floor-plan of a house, spread upon the table.

“My heart is set upon having that room for my very own,” said Margie. “The young lady of the family always has first choice, after her parents.”

“Not where there is a bride to be provided for,” Mrs. Tramlay replied.

“Well said, mamma. There, Margie,” said Lucia; “that room is for Phil and me.”

“Here,” said Tramlay, entering from the library, with a large sheet of paper in his hand, “is the plan of—— Why, Marge!—bless my soul!—when did you get back, old fellow?”

“Mr. Marge!” exclaimed the three ladies in chorus, as they hastily arose.

“What! only just come in?” asked Tramlay. “And of course there was such a clatter here, there being three women together, that nobody could hear a word.”

Apparently the ladies did not agree with the head of the family, for Mrs. Tramlay looked at the visitor pityingly and Lucia dropped her eyes and blushed. But Margie was equal to the situation: her eyes danced as she exclaimed,—

“Just in time to see the plans of the villa we’re to have at Haynton Bay. See? This is the principal chamber floor; it fronts that way, toward the water, and I’ve just been cheated out of the darlingest room of all: it’s been set apart as sacred to the bride and groom. As if the silly things would care to look at water or anything else but each other!”

“It will be as handsome a house as there is on the coast,” said Tramlay, “though your humble servant will be its owner. Say, old fellow, you need New York air: you don’t look as well as usual.”

“A long day of travel,—that is all,” said Marge, with a feeble smile that seemed reluctant to respond to the demand imposed upon it.

Mrs. Tramlay rang for a servant, and whispered,—

“A glass of wine for Mr. Marge.”

“Haynton Bay is booming,” remarked Tramlay. “Have you heard any particulars recently?”

“None at all,” drawled Marge: “I have been so busy that—— Thank you, Mrs. Tramlay,” he said, with a nod and a glance, as the wine appeared.

“We’re doing capitally,” said Tramlay. “It begins to look as if, in spite of all the extra land on which old Hayn bought us options, there won’t be enough sites to meet the demand.”

The news and the wine—both were needed—raised Marge’s spirits so that he ceased to fear he would faint. He finally collected wits and strength enough to say,—

“It’s just the time for me to sell out, then?”

“Sell out?” echoed Tramlay. “It’s just the time to hold on to it. I don’t know of anything, anywhere, that’s making a respectable fraction of the profit that there is in our little company, when the smallness of the investment is considered. I believe, too, we could make twice as much if there was some one who knew buyers well enough to charge appropriate prices. We’ve been selling at set figures, regardless of what some people might be persuaded to pay; prices of such property may as well be fancy, you know, for those who want it will have it at any price. But we’ve nobody to give proper attention to it: Phil’s time is so fully occupied——”

“On account of——” interpolated Margie, pinching her sister’s arm.

“Margie!” said Mrs. Tramlay, severely.

“He is so very busy——” resumed Tramlay.

“Being papa’s partner,” said Margie. “Have you seen the new sign ‘Tramlay and Hayn’ yet? Lu goes down town every day in our carriage, and I don’t believe it’s for anything but to look at that sign——Oh, mamma, you hurt me cruelly then.”

“Well,” said Tramlay, “if I may be permitted to finish a sentence, I’d like to say that if you’ve an hour or two a day of spare time on your hands you could do a first-rate thing for the company, as well as yourself, by keeping an eye on this property. There’s so much in it that I’ve had half a mind to devote myself to it and leave Phil to attend to iron; there’s——”

“For Phil can do it,” said Margie. “You must have heard of his great Lake and Gulfside order: everybody said it was the greatest——”

“Margie,” said Mrs. Tramlay, in ill-disguised anger, “go to your room, at once. Your father shall be allowed to talk without interruption.”

“Thank you, my dear,” said Tramlay. “As I was saying, Marge, there’s no easier way to make that property bring twice as much money than for you, with your knowledge of who is who in New York, to give some personal attention to it.”

“Thanks for the suggestion,” said Marge. “I’ll think about it. At present, however, I think I’ll say good-by and seek some rest. I merely dropped in for a moment, to pay my respects.”

“Lu,” shouted Margie from the head of the stairs, as Marge was donning his light overcoat in the hall, “don’t let Mr. Marge go until you show him that cunning little lovers’-nook on the plan of the house-front.”

Mrs. Tramlay hurried to the hall and pressed Marge’s hand: he looked down an instant, whispered, “Thank you,” and departed.