“Oh, yes, it always makes a change.  I’ve known her, after being very quiet, and hardly having any thing to say, though in the midst of young company, grow all at once as merry as a cricket, and laugh and joke in a wild sort of way.  And again, when she has been in one of her old, pleasant states of mind I have noticed that she all at once drew back into herself; I could trace the cause to only this—­the presence of Henry Wallingford.  But this doesn’t often happen, for he rarely shows himself in company.”

“Is there anything noticeable about Henry when they meet?” I asked.

“Not to an ordinary observer,” replied Mrs. Dean.  “But I look with sharper eyes than most people.  Yes, there is something noticeable.  He always puts himself in her way, but with a kind of forced, resolute manner, as if the act were a trial of strength, and involved a stern heart-discipline.  And this I think, is just the real state of the case.  He has deliberately and resolutely entered upon the work of unwinding from his heart the cord which love his thrown around it in so many intertwisted folds.  So I read him.  To break it by sudden force, would leave so many unwound portions behind, that the memory of her might sadden the whole of his after-life.  And so he is learning to grow indifferent towards her.  To search in her for such things as repel, instead of for those that charm the heart.”

“A dangerous experiment,” said my wife, “for one who has loved so deeply.”

“It would be to most men,” I remarked.  “But there is stuff about Henry—­the stuff that strong, persistent, successful men are made of.  If he has begun this work, he will complete it certainly.”

A few weeks afterwards, I had an opportunity of seeing them together, and I improved it to observe them closely.  It was in a mixed company at the house of Judge Bigelow.  Wallingford came in rather late.  I was conversing with Delia when he entered the room, and we were at an interesting point in the subject under consideration.  I noticed, all at once, a hesitation and confusion of thought, as her eyes rested, with a sudden interest, on some object in the room.  Glancing around, I saw the young man.  We went on with our conversation, Delia rallying herself, as I could see, with an effort.  But she talked no longer from thought, only from memory—­uttering mere truisms and common-places.  She put on more animation, and affected a deeper interest; but I was not deceived.

We were still in conversation, when Wallingford joined us.  I saw him fix his eyes, as they met, searchingly upon her face, and saw her eyes droop away from his.  He was fully self-possessed; she not at ease.  His mind was clear; hers in some confusion.  I remained some time near them, listening to their conversation, and joining in occasionally.  Never before had I seen him appear so well, nor her to such poor advantage.  She tried to act a part—­he was himself.  I noticed, as he led the conversation, that he kept