“Well, Lou Ann,” said farmer Hayn one morning when the month of May had reached that stage when farmers forget their coats except on Sundays, “it’ll seem ’most like takin’ boarders again to have such a big crowd of city folks in the house, won’t it?”

“Not quite as bad as that,” said Mrs. Hayn, carefully moving an iron over one of the caps which she reserved for grand occasions. “Only Mr. and Mrs. Tramlay an’ the two gals.”

“Well, you ortn’t to forget that Phil is city folks now, an—— I declare to gracious, I believe I forgot to tell you that Miss Dinon,—that splendid gal I told you about, that owns a lot of stock in the company,—Phil’s writ that like enough she’ll come down too. She an’ her mother want to pick a lot for a house for themselves before it’s too late for much of a choice.”

“Well, I can’t understand it yet,” said Mrs. Hayn, carefully picking the lace edging of the cap into the proper nÉgligÉe effect. “It seems like a dream. Here’s me, that’s sometimes been almost a-dyin’ to get away from this farm an’ into the city, an’ there’s a whole passel of city folks goin’ to leave their palaces in New York an’ come down here to live on little pieces of our farm an’ other farms along the ridge. I tell you, I can’t understand it.”

“Well,” said the farmer, picking some bits of oat chaff from his shirt-sleeve, “it ain’t always easy to understand city folks at first sight. Now, there’s that feller Marge. When I fust saw him in New York I wouldn’t have give him his salt for any work he’d do in the country. Yet now look at him! Them roads an’ drives through the company’s property wouldn’t have been half so near done if he hadn’t come down here an’ took hold to hurry things along for the spring trade. Why, some of them fellers that’s doin’ the work has worked for me on the farm, off an’ on, for years, an’ I thought I knowed how to get as much out of ’em as ther’ was in ’em; but, bless your soul, he manages ’em a good deal better.”

“They do say he’s a master-hand at managin’,” Mrs. Hayn admitted, “an’ that it’s partly because he takes right hold himself, instead of standin’ round bossin’, like most city men.”

“Takes hold? Why, he works as if he’d been brought up at it, which I’m certain sure he never was. You can’t see the fun of it, because you never saw him in New York. Why, if you could have seen him there you’d have thought that a gate-post with two pegs in the bottom of it would have had as much go as him. I’ve reelly took a likin’ to him. More’n once I’ve let him know that I wouldn’t mind if he’d leave the hotel in the village an’ put up with us, but somehow he didn’t seem to take to it.”

“That’s strange, ain’t it?” said Mrs. Hayn, with a quizzical look that made her husband stare.

“Oh!” said the old man, after a little reflection.

“You’re growin’ dretful old an’ short-sighted, Reuben,” said Mrs. Hayn; and the farmer made haste to change the subject of conversation.

A day or two later the party from the city arrived, and great was the excitement in the village. Sol Mantring’s wife, who had learned of what was expected, made a trip to Hayn Farm daily on one pretext or other, reaching there always just before the time of the arrival of the train from the city, received the deserved reward of her industry, and before sunset of the day on which the party arrived everybody in the village knew that when Lucia stepped from the carriage, at the farm-house door, Mrs. Hayn caught her in her arms and almost hugged the life out of her. Everybody knew, also, that the party was to be there for only twenty-four hours.

The shortness of the time at their disposal was probably the reason that Phil and Lucia disappeared almost immediately after the meal which quickly followed their arrival. They went to the lily-pond; there were no lilies yet upon the water, but the couple did not notice their absence; they could see them just where they should be,—just where they were, ten months before. They got again into the old birch-bark canoe; it was not as clean as it should have been for the sake of Lucia’s expensive travelling-dress, for the small boys of the Hayn family had not taken as good care of it as Phil would do, but Phil made a cushion of leaves, which Lucia slowly expanded into a couch, as she half reclined while she identified the scenes which her farmer-boy guide and boatman had shown her the summer before. Phil thought her expression angelic as she dreamily gazed about her; yet when her eyes reverted to him, as they frequently did, he informed himself that there were even gradations of angelic expression.

They even rode in the old beach-wagon; the ocean was still as cold as winter; bathing was out of the question; but Phil had a persistent fancy for reminding his sweetheart of every change there had been in their relations, and in himself; and Lucia understood him.

“It’s dreadfully mean of those two to go off by themselves, and not help us have any fun,” complained Margie to Agnes Dinon, when the latter returned from a stroll with Mr. and Mrs. Tramlay, during which she had selected a satisfactory cottage-site. “Let’s have a run. I know every foot of this country. Do you see that clump of dwarfed cedars off yonder on the ridge, with the sky for a background? They’re lovely: I’ve tried again and again to sketch them. Come over and look at them.”

Away the couple plodded. As they approached the clump they saw that a road had been partly sunk in front of it; and as they drew nearer they saw a man sodding a terrace which sloped from the ridge to the road.

“That’s not right,” said another man, who was looking on. “That sod must be laid more securely, or the first rain will wash it away. I’ll show you how to do it. See here.”

“Agnes Dinon!” exclaimed Margie, in a tone which suggested that a mouse, or at least a snake, was in close proximity. “Do you hear that voice?—do you see that man? Do you know who he is? That is the elegant Mr. Marge.”

Miss Dinon manifested surprise, but she quickly whispered,—

“Sh-h-h! Yes, I knew he was here, looking after the company’s interests. He is one of the directors, you know.”

“Yes, I know; but see his hat and his clothes,—and his brown hands. This is simply killing! Oh, if I had crayons and paper, or, better still, a camera! The girls at home won’t believe me when I tell them: they’ll think it too utterly preposterous.”

“Why should you tell them?” asked Agnes, turning away. “Isn’t it entirely honorable for a man to be caring for his own and fulfilling his trust, especially when so valuable a property as this is demands his attention?”

“Yes, yes, you dear old thing; but——”

“Sh-h!” whispered Agnes, for just then Marge climbed the slope and appeared a little way in front of them, shouting back at the man,—

“Cut your next sod here: this seems to have thicker grass.”

Suddenly he saw the ladies and recognized them. It was too late to run, as he assuredly would have done if warned in time, but he had the presence of mind to shout to his workman,—

“No, it isn’t, either. Get the next from the old place!”

“Good-morning, Mr. Marge,” said Miss Dinon, with a frank smile and an outstretched hand.

Marge raised his hat, bowed, and replied,—

“The hand of the laboring-man is sometimes best shaken in spirit. I assure you, though, I appreciate the compliment.”

“Then don’t deny me the honor,” said Miss Dinon. “It’s a positive pleasure to see a man doing something manly. It is my misfortune that I see men only in the city, you know, and doing nothing.”

Her hand was still extended, so Marge took it, again raising his hat. Margie turned away; the situation was so comical to her that she felt she must laugh, and she knew by experience that her laughter was sometimes uncontrollable when fairly started.

“Mr. Tramlay says you’ve worked wonders since you’ve been here,” said Miss Dinon, as Marge released her hand; “and, as old Mr. Hayn is his authority, I have no doubt it is so.”

“I imagine that I deserve the company’s thanks,” Marge replied, “though I’m astonished at having mastered some portions of the work so quickly. I think I can astonish you, also, by an honest confession: I really wish something of this sort had turned up years ago; I’m a great deal happier at it than I ever was while worrying my wits over stocks in Wall Street. I think the work far more honorable and manly, too. You’re quite at liberty to repeat this to any of our mutual friends in the city: I’m sure ’twill amuse them, and their laughter won’t annoy me a particle.”

“They wouldn’t laugh,” said Miss Dinon, “if they could breathe this glorious air awhile, and foresee the gold which this ground will yield, unless appearances are deceitful.”

The old beach-wagon, a quarter of a mile away, crawled up the grassy slope from the long stretch of sand, and Phil stopped, as of old, to let the horse breathe after his hard tug at the deep-sinking wheels.

“What a picture those two people make on the hill yonder, beside that green clump!” said Lucia. “Why, the woman is Agnes,—there is Margie, picking daisies far to the right,—and the man Agnes is talking to is some common workman. What a splendid woman she is! She can be as independent as she likes, and no one ever mistakes her meaning. Imagine any other girl of our set standing on a country hill-side, chatting with some boor!”

“Boor?” echoed Phil, running a whole gamut of intonations. “Do you know who that boor is? I recognized him at sight: he was in the village as we passed through, but it didn’t seem kind to call attention to him.”

“Who is he? Do tell me.”

“Mr. Marge.”

“Philip Hayn!” exclaimed Lucia. “Do turn the wagon away, so we don’t seem to be looking at them.”

“Consistency, thy name is not woman,” said Phil, after complying with the request, for Lucia was kneeling on the back seat of the wagon and peering through the little window in the dingy old curtain.

“Not to revive any unpleasant memories,” said Marge, after he and Miss Dinon had chatted several moments, as co-investors, about the property, “but merely to call attention to the irony of fate, it seems odd to me to contrast to-day and a certain day several years ago. Laugh about it, I beg of you, because I call attention to it only for its laughable side. To-day you do me the honor—which I never shall forget—of pressing your hand upon me, although no stranger could distinguish me from one of my workmen. Then, when in a different sense I wanted your hand, and had the temerity to think myself worthy of it, you withheld it.”

Miss Dinon did not laugh; she looked off toward the sea, and said,—

“You were not then as you are to-day.”

“Thank you. But if I had been?”

Again Miss Dinon looked toward the sea, and said,—

“I might perhaps have been more appreciative.”

“And to-day,” said Marge, gently taking the lady’s finger-tips,—“no, not to-day, but hereafter, is it impossible that I should honestly earn it?”

“Who knows,” said Agnes, gently, “but you?”

“Phil!” gasped Lucia, from the back of the old beach-wagon, “he is kissing her hand!”

“Umph!” said Phil: “what can that mean?”

Lucia looked at him soberly, and replied,—

“What a question for you, of all men, to ask!”

“Why, ’tis only an old-fashioned form of salutation or adieu,” said Phil, “I have your own word for it: don’t you remember?”

For answer, Lucia’s eyes looked from beneath their lashes so provokingly that Phil stepped across his seat and hid each under his moustache for a second or two.