GRADUALLY the mind of Irene attained clearness of perception as to duty, and a firmness of will that led her to act in obedience to what reason and religion taught her was right.  The leading idea which Mrs. Everet endeavored to keep before her was this:  that no happiness is possible, except in some work that removes self-consciousness and fills our minds with an interest in the well-being of others.  While Rose was at Ivy Cliff, Irene acted with her, and was sustained by her love and companionship.  After her marriage and removal to New York, Irene was left to stand alone, and this tried her strength.  It was feeble.  The sickness and death of her father drew her back again into herself, and for a time extinguished all interest in what was on the outside.  To awaken a new and higher life was the aim of her friend, and she never wearied in her generous efforts.  During this winter plans were matured for active usefulness in the old spheres, and Mrs. Everet promised to pass as much time in the next summer with her father as possible, so as to act with Irene in the development of these schemes.

The first warm days of summer found Irene back again in her home at Ivy Cliff.  Her visit in New York had been prolonged far beyond the limit assigned to it in the beginning, but Rose would not consent to an earlier return.  This winter of daily life with Mrs. Everet, in the unreserved intercourse of home, was of great use to Irene.  Affliction had mellowed all the harder portions of her disposition, which the trouble and experiences of the past few years could not reach with their softening influences.  There was good soil in her mind, well prepared, and the sower failed not in the work of scattering good seed upon it with a liberal hand—­seed that felt soon a quickening life and swelled in the delight of coming germination.

It is not our purpose to record the history of Irene during the years of her discipline at Ivy Cliff, where she lived, nun-like, for the larger part of her time.  She had useful work there, and in its faithful performance peace came to her troubled soul.  Three or four times every year she paid a visit to Rose, and spent on each occasion from one to three or four weeks.  It could not but happen that in these visits congenial friendship would be made, and tender remembrances go back with her into the seclusion of her country home, to remain as sweet companions in her hours of loneliness.

It was something remarkable that, during the six or seven years which followed Irene’s separation from her husband, she had never seen him.  He was still a resident of New York, and well known as a rapidly advancing member of the bar.  Occasionally his name met her eyes in the newspapers, as connected with some important suit; but, beyond this, his life was to her a dead letter.  He might be married again, for all she knew to the contrary.  But she never dwelt on that thought; its intrusion always disturbed her, and that profoundly.