“You silly fellow!” said Lucia, with the first smile upon which she had ventured that evening; “I wonder where you get such notions. If you don’t give them up you will some day find yourself writing poetry,--something about the transmutation of railroad-iron into gold. Think how ridiculous that would seem!” “But when iron attempts ‘to gild refined gold,--to paint the lily,’” said Phil, “as it does in your father’s case, why, ’twould be worth dropping into poetry to tell of at least one instance where Shakespeare’s conclusion was wrong. You know the rest of the quotation?” Yes, evidently Lucia knew it, for her cheek glowed prettily under the compliment, which, while somewhat awkward, reached its mark by the help of Phil’s eyes. As for Phil, his heart began to be itself again: whose heart wouldn’t, he asked himself, under the consciousness of having given one second of pleasure to that dear girl? “You seem to be in a sermonizing mood to-night,” said Lucia. “I know my father is the best man alive, and I supposed you liked him,--a little; but I can’t imagine what should have impressed you so strongly with him to-night.” Phil studied the toes of his boots, the tints of the patternless rug, the design of the frescoed ceiling. Lucia watched him with an amused face, and finally said, “Even you don’t seem to know.” “I know,” said Phil, slowly, “and I’m trying to think how to express it properly.” Poor fellow! how he did despise himself, that what he had hurried there to say would not come to his lips properly! Such a story had seemed easy enough when he had read, in books, of how other men told it,--so easy, indeed, that he had come to have very little patience with that portion of novels. Of course he could not tell it while Lucia was laughing,--laughing at him, too. Perhaps he could lead conversation back to the desired tone; but no; for just at that instant Margie flew into the room, exclaiming, before she fairly entered,-- “Oh, Lu, isn’t it awful? I just went across the room for something, and my dress caught the table-cover, and over went an inkstand on my very, veriest white---- Why, Phil, I didn’t know you were here.” “I wish I knew what would take ink-stains from very, veriest white----” “Oh, so do I. What shall I do, Lu? Do tell me at once.” “Perhaps,” suggested Phil, with a gleam of hope for Margie and several for himself, “your laundress can tell.” “The very thing,” said Margie. “What a blessing you are! I wish you were always here.” Then she flew out of the room, but not until she had flung a meaning look at her sister and another at Phil. Both blushed, and Phil felt uncomfortable, but as he stole a look at Lucia he mentally blessed Margie, for Lucia was no longer laughing, and she was looking unusually pretty; her eyes, slightly downcast, seemed a more heavenly blue than ever.