“The idea of a farmer’s boy in a New York merchant’s counting-room!” exclaimed Mrs. Tramlay. “You seem to forget, my dear, that nearly all the successful merchants in New York were once country boys, and that all the new men who are making their mark are from everywhere but New York itself.” “If young Hayn is as sensible as you think him, he will probably be wise enough to decline your offer and go back to his father’s farm. You yourself used to say that you would rather be in their business than your own.” “Bright woman!” replied Tramlay, with a smile and a nod; “but I wouldn’t have thought so at his age, and I don’t believe Hayn will. I can afford to pay him as much as that farm earns in a year,--say fifteen hundred dollars; and I don’t believe he’ll decline that amount of money; ’twill enable him to take care of himself in good bachelor style and save something besides. I’m sure, too, he’d like to remain in the city: country youths always do, after they have a taste of it.” Again Margie glanced at Lucia, but the chicken croquette continued troublesome, and no responsive glance came back. “He had far better be at home,” persisted Mrs. Tramlay, “where the Lord put him in the first place.” “Well,” said Tramlay, finishing a cup of coffee, “if the Lord had meant every one to remain where he was born, I don’t believe he would have given each person a pair of feet. And what a sin it must be to make railroad-iron, which tempts and aids hundreds of thousands of people to move about!” “Don’t be irreverent, Edgar, and, above all things, try not to be ridiculous,” said the lady of the house. “And when you’ve spoiled this youth and he goes back to home a disappointed man, don’t forget that you were warned in time.” “Spoiled? That sort of fellow don’t spoil; not if I’m any judge of human nature. Why, if he should take a notion to the iron trade, there’s nothing to prevent him becoming a merchant prince some day,--a young Napoleon of steel rails, or angle-iron, or something. Like enough I’ll be glad some time to get him to endorse my note.” Once more Margie’s eyes sought her sister’s, but Lucia seemed to have grown near-sighted over that chicken croquette, for Margie could see only a tiny nose-tip under a tangle of yellow hair. “My capacity for nonsense is lessening as I grow older,” said Mrs. Tramlay. “I’ll have to ask you to excuse me.” Then, with the air of an overworked conservator of dignity, the lady left the dining-room. “Excuse me, too,” said her husband, a moment later, after looking at his watch. “Conversation is the thief of time--in the early morning. Good-by, children.” Margie sprang from her chair and threw her arms around her father’s neck. She was a fairly affectionate daughter, but such exuberance came only by fits and starts, and it was not the sort of thing that any father with a well-regulated heart cares to hurry away from, even when business is looking up. When finally Tramlay was released, he remarked,--