Madge now turned toward Mr. Muir, and he could detect not the slightest indication of embarrassment or overconsciousness, as she said, “Certainly, Henry, you must not spoil this little bit of prospective fun.”

Madge did have her own way, and made her preparations with the quiet decision and thoughtfulness which now characterized her actions.

The Waylands were frequent guests at Mr. Muir’s home for a time, and then departed to visit friends in the country.

Madge and her sister soon decided upon the Catskills as the place of their summer sojourn.  The choice of this region, so accessible from the city, was pleasing to Mr. Muir.

“What are you reading?” he said, one evening, as he found Madge surrounded by books and pamphlets.

“Reading up on the Catskills and their vicinity.  A place is far more interesting if you have associations with it, and I intend to be versed in all the stories and legends of the region.  In this I have a little design upon you also.  You look worn, Henry, and need rest and change.  You are too much devoted to business.  I’m going to ‘frivol,’ like the rest of the girls, in the evening—­dance, and all that, you know, but I shall try to keep you among the hills, and inveigle you into long drives and walks by telling you exciting yarns that will take the place of the dissipations of business.  You needn’t think you will have to mope around the piazza, your body on a mountain and your mind in Wall Street.  You are getting old and rich, and you must begin to take an interest in other things besides business.”

“Now, that’s thoughtful and kind of you,” he said, and then he lapsed into a revery that the contraction of his brow showed to be not altogether agreeable.

At last he said, “Madge, I half believe you are right.  I am and have been too devoted to business.  It’s all very well as long as you can drive it, but when it begins to drive you it is a hard task-master.  The times are bad.  Instead of making anything, one has to use all his faculties to keep from losing what he has made.  It’s getting to be a grind.  I sometimes wish I was out of it, but suppose I shouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

“That’s just it, Henry, you wouldn’t.  You must become interested in other things, and that’s a process which requires time, and I’ll help you.”

“Oh, you,” he said, laughing—­“you will soon have all you can do to keep your beaux at bay.”

“Beaux in this free and enlightened land have only certain rights which a girl is bound to respect.  Should there be any, and they unreasonable, you’ll see,” she said, with a little decisive nod.  Then she added, gravely:  “I don’t believe you would be content out of business, but I should think there was such a thing as trying to do so much business that it would become a burden, and, perhaps, a heavy one.  You may think I’m a little goose, talking of what I know nothing about; but I’ve read a great deal, and, of late, books worth reading.  I don’t believe it is a good thing to change one’s habits and pursuits suddenly; and what’s more, Henry, I believe that when the times are better business will be as great a source of satisfaction to you as ever.  As I suggested before, you must gradually become interested in other things which can take the place of business as you grow old.”