From that time I noticed a change in Delia.  She grew silent in company, and had an absent way about her that contrasted strongly with her former social disposition.  Young people rallied her in the usual style about her heart being absent with the beloved one, but I read the signs differently.  It could not but follow, that a soul, endowed like hers, would have misgivings in view of an alliance with one like Ralph Dewey.  What was there in him to satisfy a true woman’s yearnings for conjunction with a kindred nature?  Nothing!  He was all outside as to good.  A mere selfish, superficial, speculating man of the world.  While she had a heart capable of the deepest and truest affection.  Would he make the fitting complement to her life?  Alas!  No!  That were a thing impossible.

During the few months that preceded this marriage, I often heard its promise discussed by my wife and Mrs. Dean, neither of whom had any strong liking for the young New York merchant.

“It’s my opinion,” said Mrs. Dean, as she sat with my wife one evening, about two months after the engagement had taken place, “that Ralph has more froth than substance about him.  He really talks, sometimes, as if he had the world in a sling and could toss it up among the stars.  As far as my observation goes, such people flourish only for a season.”

“If Delia were a child of mine,” said my good Constance, in her earnest way, “I would a thousand times rather trust her with Henry Wallingford than with Ralph Dewey.”

“Yes, and a thousand millions of times,” responded Mrs. Dean.  “He is a man.  You know just what he is, and where he is.  But, as for this splashing nephew of Judge Bigelow’s—­who knows what’s below the surface?  Delia’s father is all taken up with him, and thinks the match a splendid one.  Sister don’t say much; but I can see that she has her misgivings.  I can talk to you freely, you know.”

“I don’t think,” said I, “that Delia has grown more cheerful since her engagement.  Brides expectant ought to feel as happy as the day is long.”

“More cheerful?  Oh, dear, no!  She isn’t the same that she was at all; but mopes about more than half of her time.  It’s just my opinion—­spoken between friends—­that she cares, now, a great deal more for Henry than she does for Ralph.”

“Do they ever meet?” I inquired.

“Not very often.”

“They have met?”

“Yes, several times.”

“Have you seen them together?”

“Oh, yes.”

“How does she act towards him?”

“Not always the same.  Sometimes she is talkative, and sometimes reserved—­sometimes as gay as a lark, and sometimes sober enough; as if there were such a weight on her spirits, that she could not smile without an effort.”

“Does the fact of his presence make any change in her?” I inquired.  “What I mean is, if she were lively in spirits before he came in, would she grow serious—­or if serious, grow excited?”