After the Storm

The night had passed wearily for Mr. Delancy, broken by fitful

dreams, in which the image of his daughter was always

present--dreams that he could trace to no thoughts or impressions of

the day before; and he arose unrefreshed, and with a vague sense of

trouble in his heart, lying there like a weight which no involuntary

deep inspirations would lessen or remove. No June day ever opened in

fresher beauty than did this one, just four years since the actors

in our drama came smiling before us, in the flush of youth and hope

and confidence in the far-off future. The warmth of early summer had

sent the nourishing sap to every delicate twig and softly expanding

leaf until, full foliaged, the trees around Ivy Cliff stood in

kingly attire, lifting themselves up grandly in the sunlight which

flooded their gently-waving tops in waves of golden glory. The air

was soft and of crystal clearness; and the lungs drank it in as if

the draught were ethereal nectar.

On such a morning in June, after a night of broken and unrefreshing

sleep, Mr. Delancy walked forth, with that strange pressure on his

heart which he had been vainly endeavoring to push aside since the

singing birds awoke him, in the faint auroral dawn, with their

joyous welcome to the coming day. He drew in long draughts of the

delicious air; expanded his chest; moved briskly through the garden;

threw his arms about to hurry the sluggish flow of blood in his

veins; looked with constrained admiration on the splendid landscape

that stretched far and near in the sweep of his vision; but all to

no purpose. The hand still lay heavy upon his heart; he could not

get it removed.

Returning to the house, feeling more uncomfortable for this

fruitless effort to rise above what he tried to call an unhealthy

depression of spirits consequent on some morbid state of the body,

Mr. Delancy was entering the library, when a fresh young face

greeted him with light and smiles.

"Good-morning, Rose," said the old gentleman, as his face brightened

in the glow of the young girl's happy countenance. "I am glad to see

you;" and he took her hand and held it tightly.

"Good-morning, Mr. Delancy. When did you hear from Irene?"

"Ten days ago."

"She was well?"

"Oh yes. Sit down, Rose; there." And Mr. Delancy drew a chair before

the sofa for his young visitor, and took a seat facing her.

"I haven't had a letter from her in six months," said Rose, a sober

hue falling on her countenance.

"I don't think she is quite thoughtful enough of her old friends."

"And too thoughtful, it may be, of new ones," replied Mr. Delancy,

his voice a little depressed from the cheerful tone in which he had

welcomed his young visitor.