“When life does go smoothly, it is because of just such good, cheery common-sense,” Mr. Muir remarked, sententiously.  “I’m in the financial centre of this part of the world, and schemes involving millions and the welfare of States—­indeed of whole sections of the country—­are daily brought to my consideration, and I tell you again men are often in no condition to act wisely or well because the wear and tear of their life is greater after business hours than during them.  Business maniac as Madge thinks me to be, little Jack is of more consequence than a transcontinental railway.  I must face the music—­the discord, rather—­of Wall Street to-morrow.  There is no use in protesting or coaxing; I must be there; but it’s a great thing to be able to return with my nerves soothed, rested, and quieted.  Heaven help the men who, after the strain of the day, must go home to be pricked half to death with pin-and-needle-like worries, if not worse.”

“Please imagine Madge and myself making a profound courtesy for the implied compliment,” said Mrs. Muir.  “But can you not spend part of the week with us?”

“No.  Graydon will soon be here, and there is much to be seen to.  He writes that he has worked very hard to get things in shape so that he can leave them, and that he wishes to take a vacation.  As far as possible I shall gratify him.  He can be with you here, and come to town occasionally as I need him.  It’s all turning out very well, and I am better off than many in these troublous times.”

The remainder of his stay passed quietly in absolute rest, and on the following morning he was evidently strengthened for the renewal of the struggle.

* * * * *

“Stella!”

Miss Wildmere remained absorbed in her novel.

“Stella!” repeated Mr. Wildmere, impatiently.

“What is it?” she asked, fretfully.  “I’m in an exciting scene.  Can’t you wait awhile?”

“Oh, throw down your confounded novel!  You should be giving your mind to real life and exciting scenes of your own.  No, I can’t wait and don’t propose to, for I must go out.”

The words were spoken in a small but elegant house, furnished in an ultra-fashionable style.  Mr. Wildmere was a stout, florid man, who looked as if he might be burning his candle at both ends.  His daughter was dressed to receive summer evening calls at her own home, for she was rarely without them.  If the door-bell had rung she would have dismissed her exciting scene without hesitation, but it was only her father who asked her attention.

“Very well,” she said, absently, turning down a leaf.

Her father observed her listless air and averted face for a moment with contracted brow, then quietly remarked, “Graydon Muir may return at any time now.”

Her apathy disappeared at once, and a faint color stole into her face.