“P’r’aps so, my boy,—p’r’aps,—and maybe as bad as you, for every time there’s a bad thunder-storm you’re afraid the lightning’ll strike the barn. Do you know why? It’s because your finest colt is there. Do you see?”
Phil did not reply, so the old man continued:
“I’ll make it clearer to you. You’re my finest colt; there’s more lightnings in a girl’s eyes than I ever saw in the sky, you don’t know when it’s going to strike, and when it hits you you’re gone before you know it.”
“Much obliged. I’ll see to it that I keep myself well insulated,” said Phil.
Nevertheless, Phil studied Lucia whenever he had opportunity,—studied her face when she read, her fingers when they busied themselves with fancy work, her manner with different persons, as it changed according to her idea of the deservings of those with whom she talked. At church he regarded her intently from the beginning of the service to its end, analyzing such portions of prayer, hymn, or sermon as did not seem to meet her views. He even allowed his gaze to follow her when she looked more than an instant at other young women, in the ignorance of his masculine heart wondering which of the features of these damsels specially interested her; his mother could have told him that Lucia was merely looking at bonnets and other articles of attire, instead of at their wearers. He wondered what she thought; he told himself where her character was at fault, and how it might be improved. In short, he had ample mental leisure, and she was the newest and consequently the least understood of his various subjects of contemplation.
It is impossible to devote a great deal of thought to any subject without becoming deeply interested, even if it be unsightly, tiresome, and insignificant. Lucia was none of these, for she was a pretty girl. It is equally impossible to see a familiar subject of thought in the act of disappearance without a personal sense of impending loneliness, and a wild desire to snatch it back or at least go in search of it. Therefore Philip Hayn needed not to be in love, or even to think himself so, to be conscious of a great vacancy in his mind as the train bore the Tramlay family rapidly toward their city home, and to determine that he would avail himself of the invitation which the head of the family had extended.
CHAPTER II.
FAMILY COUNCILS.
“Husband,” said Mrs. Hayn to her husband one night, when the person addressed was about to drop asleep, “something’s the matter with Phil.”
“A touch of malaria, I suppose,” said the farmer. “He’s been gettin’ out muck earlier than usual, and spreadin’ it on the ridge of the pasture. The sun’s been pretty hot, though it is October, and hot sun on that sort of stuff always breeds malaria.”
“I wasn’t talkin’ of sickness,” said the wife. “The dear boy’s health is as good as ever. It’s his mind that’s out o’ sorts.”