"Come, dear father," she wrote. "I think of you, sitting all alone

at Ivy Cliff, during these long evenings, and grow sad at heart in

sympathy with your loneliness. Come at once. Why linger a week or

even a day longer? We have been all in all to each other these many

years, and ought not to be separated now."

But Mr. Delancy was not ready to exchange the pure air and

widespreading scenery of the Highlands for a city residence, even in

the desolate winter, and so wrote back doubtingly. Irene and her

husband then came up to add the persuasion of their presence at Ivy

Cliff. It did not avail, however. The old man was too deeply wedded

to his home.

"I should be miserable in New York," he replied to their earnest

entreaties; "and it would not add to your happiness to see me going

about with a sober, discontented face, or to be reminded every

little while that if you had left me to my winter's hibernation I

would have been a contented instead of a dissatisfied old man. No,

no, my children; Ivy Cliff is the best place for me. You shall come

up and spend Christmas here, and we will have a gay season."

There was no further use in argument. Mr. Delancy would have his

way; and he was right.

Irene and her husband went back to the city, with a promise to spend

Christmas at the old homestead.

Two weeks passed. It was the twentieth of December. Without previous

intimation, Irene came up alone to Ivy Cliff, startling her father

by coming in suddenly upon him one dreary afternoon, just as the

leaden sky began to scatter down the winter's first offering of

snow.

"My daughter!" he exclaimed, so surprised that he could not move

from where he was sitting.

"Dear father!" she answered with a loving smile, throwing her arms

around his neck and kissing him.

"Where is Hartley?" asked the old man, looking past Irene toward the

door through which she had just entered.

"Oh, I left him in New York," she replied.

"In New York! Have you come alone?"

"Yes. Christmas is only five days off, you know, and I am here to

help you prepare for it. Of course, Hartley cannot leave his

business."

She spoke in an excited, almost gay tone of voice. Mr. Delancy

looked at her earnestly. Unpleasant doubts flitted through his mind.

"When will your husband come up?" he inquired.

"At Christmas," she answered, without hesitation.

"Why didn't you write, love?" asked Mr. Delancy. "You have taken me

by surprise, and set my nerves in a flutter."

"I only thought about it last evening. One of my sudden

resolutions."

And she laughed a low, fluttering laugh. It might have been an

error, but her father had a fancy that it did not come from her

heart.




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