With slow steps, that were unsteady from sudden weakness, Irene moved along the road that led to her home.  After reaching the grounds of Ivy Cliff she turned aside into a small summer-house, and sat down at one of the windows that looked out upon the river as it stretched upward in its gleaming way.  The boat she bad just left was already far distant, but it fixed her eyes, and they saw no other object until it passed from view around a wooded point of land.  And still she sat motionless, looking at the spot where it had vanished from her sight.

“Miss Irene!” exclaimed Margaret, the faithful old domestic, who still bore rule at the homestead, breaking in upon her reverie, “what in the world are you doing here?  I expected you up to-day, and when the boat stopped at the landing and you didn’t come, I was uneasy and couldn’t rest.  Why child, what is the matter?  You’re sick!”

“Oh no, Margaret, I’m well enough,” said Irene, trying to smile indifferently.  And she arose and left the summer-house.

Kind, observant old Margaret was far from being satisfied, however.  She saw that Irene was not as when she departed for the city a week before.  If she were not sick in body, she was troubled in her mind, for her countenance was so changed that she could not look upon it without feeling a pang in her heart.

“I’m sure you’re sick, Miss Irene,” she said as they entered the house.  “Now, what is the matter?  What can I do or get for you?  Let me send over for Dr. Edmondson?”

“No, no, my good Margaret, don’t think of such a thing,” replied Irene.  “I’m not sick.”

“Something’s the matter with you, child,” persisted Margaret.

“Nothing that won’t cure itself,” said Irene, trying to speak cheerfully.  “I’ll go up to my room for a little while.”

And she turned away from her kind-hearted domestic.  On entering her chamber Irene locked the door in order to be safe from intrusion, for she knew that Margaret would not let half an hour pass without coming up to ask how she was.  Sitting down by the window, she looked out upon the river, along whose smooth surface had passed the vessel in which, a little while before, she met the man once called by the name of husband—­met him and looked into his face for the first time in ten long years!  The meeting had disturbed her profoundly.  In the cabin of that vessel she had seen him by the side of a fair young girl in earnest conversation; and she had watched with a strange, fluttering interest the play of his features.  What was he saying to that fair young girl that she listened with such a breathless, waiting air?  Suddenly he turned toward her, their eyes met and were spell-bound for moments.  What did she read in his eyes in those brief moments?  What did he read in hers?  Both questions pressed themselves upon her thoughts as she retreated among the crowd of passengers, and then hid herself from the chance of another meeting until the boat reached the landing at Ivy Cliff.  Why did she pause on the shore, and turn to look upon the crowded decks?  She knew not.  The act was involuntary.  Again their eyes met—­met and held each other until the receding vessel placed dim distance between them.