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. CHAPTER XXIX. SO THEY WERE MARRIED.