After the Storm

Irene could not answer. Her heart was beating wildly. What could

this mean? Had reason fled? But she struggled hard to preserve a

calm exterior.

"Will Hartley be up to-day?"

Irene tried to say "No," but could not find utterance.

Mr. Delancy looked at her curiously, and now in a slightly troubled

way. Then he let his eyes fall, and sat holding his cup like one who

was turning perplexed thoughts in his mind.

"You are not well this morning, father," said Irene, speaking only

because silence was too oppressive for endurance.

"I don't know; perhaps I'm not very well; and Mr. Delancy looked

across the table at his daughter very earnestly. "I had bad dreams

all last night, and they seem to have got mixed up in my thoughts

with real things. How is it? When did you come up from New York?

Don't smile at me. But really I can't think."

"I came yesterday," said Irene, as calmly as she could speak.

"Yesterday!" He looked at her with a quickly changing face.

"Yes, father, I came up yesterday."

"And Rose was here?"

"Yes."

Mr. Delancy's eyes fell again, and he sat very still.

"Hartley will not be here to-day?"

Mr. Delancy did not look up as he asked this question.

"No, father."

"Nor to-morrow?"

"I think not."

A sigh quivered on the old man's lips.

"Nor the day after that?"

"He did not say when he was coming," replied Irene, evasively.

"Did not say when? Did not say when?" Mr. Delancy repeated the

sentence two or three times, evidently trying all the while to

recall something which had faded from his memory.

"Don't worry yourself about Hartley," said Irene, forcing herself to

pronounce a name that seemed like fire on her lips. "Isn't it enough

that I am here?"

"No, it is not enough." And her father put his hand to his forehead

and looked upward in an earnest, searching manner.

What could Irene say? What could she do? The mind of her father was

groping about in the dark, and she was every moment in dread lest he

should discover the truth and get farther astray from the shock.

No food was taken by either Mr. Delancy or his daughter. The former

grew more entangled in his thoughts, and finally arose from the

table, saying, in a half-apologetic way, "I don't know what ails me this morning."

"Where are you going?" asked Irene, rising at the same time.

"Nowhere in particular. The air is close here--I'll sit a while in

the portico," he answered, and throwing open one of the windows he

stepped outside. Irene followed him.

"How beautiful!" said Mr. Delancy, as he sat down and turned his

eyes upon the attractive landscape. Irene did not trust her voice in

reply.