Even if, in three years of intimate, almost daily, association with

Rose, she had not learned to think in some new directions on these

bewildering questions, certain womanly instincts must have set a

seal upon her lips. Not for all the world would she, to a

stranger--no, nor to any new friend--utter a sentiment that could in

the least degree give color to the thought that she wished to throw

even the faintest shadow of blame on Hartley Emerson. Not that she

was ready to take blame to herself, or give the impression that

fault rested by her door. No. The subject was sacred to herself, and

she asked no sympathy and granted no confidences. There were those

who sought to draw her out, who watched her face and words with keen

intentness when certain themes were discussed. But they were unable

to reach the penetralia of her heart. There was a chamber of record

there into which no one could enter but herself.

Since the separation of Irene from her husband, Mr. Delancy had

shown signs of rapid failure. His heart was bound up in his

daughter, who, with all her captious self-will and impulsiveness,

loved him with a tenderness and fervor that never knew change or

eclipse. To see her make shipwreck of life's dearest hopes--to know

that her name was spoken by hundreds in reprobation--to look daily

on her quiet, changing, suffering face, was more than his fond heart

could bear. It broke him down. This fact, more perhaps, than her own

sad experiences, tended to sober the mind of Irene, and leave it

almost passive under the right influences of her wise young friend.

After the removal of Rose from the neighborhood of Ivy Cliff, the

health of Mr. Delancy failed still more rapidly, and in a few months

the brief visits of Irene to her friend in New York had to be

intermitted. She could no longer venture to leave her father, even

under the care of their faithful Margaret. A sad winter for Irene

succeeded. Mr. Delancy drooped about until after Christmas, in a

weary, listless way, taking little interest in anything, and bearing

both physical and mental consciousness as a burden it would be

pleasant to lay down. Early in January he had to give up and go to

bed; and now the truth of his condition startled the mind of Irene

and filled her with alarm. By slow, insidious encroachments, that

dangerous enemy, typhoid fever, had gained a lodgment in the very

citadel of life, and boldly revealed itself, defying the healer's

art. For weeks the dim light of mortal existence burned with a low,

wavering flame, that any sudden breath of air might extinguish; then

it grew steady again, increased, and sent a few brighter rays into

the darkness which had gathered around Ivy Cliff.

Spring found Mr. Delancy strong enough to sit, propped up with

pillows, by the window of his chamber, and look out upon the

newly-mantled trees, the green fields, and the bright river flashing

in the sunshine. The heart of Irene took courage again. The cloud

which had lain upon it all winter like a funereal pall dissolved,

and went floating away and wasting itself in dim expanses.




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