“What a mercy it is that they don’t know it!” said her father. “They’d all go off and commit suicide, and then merchants couldn’t have any clerks at all.” “Now, papa!” said Lucia, with a crash on the lower octaves of keys, followed by a querulous run, with her thumb, over the shorter strings. “Is the new clerk anybody in particular? What is his name?” “Philip Hayn.” Lucia sprang from the piano-stool and almost strangled her father with her slender arms. “Gracious, Lu!” exclaimed the merchant. “Your mother’s family must have descended from a grizzly bear. But why this excitement?” “Because you’re a dear, thoughtful old man, who’s always trying to do good,” said Lucia. “If ’tweren’t for you that poor young man might never have a chance in the world. I think it’s real missionary work to help deserving people who aren’t able to help themselves; I know it is; for our minister has said so from the pulpit again and again.” “I’m real glad to learn that my daughter remembers some of the things she hears in church,” said the merchant. “So you think young Hayn deserves a chance in the world, eh?” “I only know what you yourself have said about him,” said Lucia, demurely. “Good girl! always take your father’s advice about young men, and you’ll not be mistaken in human nature. Which cut of the roast chicken shall I send up to your room?” “Oh, I’ll try to come down, as it’s only Phil: maybe I can coax Margie to help me dress.” Lucia slipped slowly from the room, but went up the stairs like a whirlwind. The merchant sat down at the piano and made as dreadful a succession of noises as the much afflicted instrument had ever endured. He had to do something. A quarter of an hour later Lucia floated down-stairs in a robe of pale blue, her face as fresh and bright as dawn. “Sunrise at sunset!” exclaimed her father. “Well, girls are possessed to upset the natural order of things, I suppose. But, my dear daughter, you’ve put the rouge on too thick; don’t you think so?” “Father!” exclaimed the girl, and the flush of her cheeks spread to her brow. “Edgar,” said Mrs. Tramlay, who came in a moment or two after, “see how foolish you were to think Lucia ill. I never saw her looking better.” “Yes,” said the merchant, dryly; “I told her the doctor was coming. That’s often enough to cure the ailments of some children, you know.” Then the merchant devoted ten minutes of business tact to the task of explaining to his wife the reasons of Philip’s return to New York; he also enlarged upon the Haynton Bay Improvement Company, and the probability that if the Tramlays were to build the first and handsomest house on the new property Mrs. Tramlay would naturally be the fashionable leader of whatever section or sub-section of society might select the place as a summer home. Mrs. Tramlay was inclined to be conservative on the subject, but when she learned that Marge was a stockholder and director in the company she became quite cheerful.