It was four years subsequent to this time that Irene, after a brief visit in New York to her friend, Mrs. Everet, returned to her rural home.  Mrs. Everet was to follow on the next day, and spend a few weeks with her father.  It was yet in the early summer, and there were not many passengers on the-boat.  As was usual, Irene provided herself with a volume, and soon after going on board took a retired place in one of the cabins and buried herself in its pages.  For over three hours she remained completely absorbed in what she was reading.  Then her mind began to wander and dwell on themes that made the even pulses of her heart beat to a quicker measure; yet still her eyes remained fixed on the book she held in her hand.  At length she became aware that some one was near her, by the falling of a shadow on the page she was trying to read.  Lifting her head, she met the eyes of Hartley Emerson.  He was standing close to her, his hand resting on the back of a chair, which he now drew nearly in front of her.

“Irene,” he said, in a low, quiet voice, “I am glad to meet you again in this world.”  And he reached out his hand as he spoke.

For a moment Irene sat very still, but she did not take her eyes from Mr. Emerson’s face; then she extended her hand and let it lie in his.  He did not fail to notice that it had a low tremor.

Thus received, he sat down.

“Nearly twenty years have passed, Irene, since a word or sign has passed between us.”

Her lips moved, but there was no utterance.

“Why should we not, at least, be friends?”

Her lips moved again, but no words trembled on the air.

“Friends, that may meet now and then, and feel kindly one toward the other.”

His voice was still event in tone—­very even, but very distinct and impressive.

At first Irene’s face had grown pale, but now a warm flush was pervading it.

“If you desire it, Hartley,” she answered, in a voice that trembled in the beginning, but grew firm ere the sentence closed, “it is not for me to say, ‘No.’  As for kind feelings, they are yours always—­always.  The bitterness passed from my heart long ago.”

“And from mine,” said Mr. Emerson.

They were silent for a few moments, and each showed embarrassment.

“Nearly twenty years!  That is a long, long time, Irene.”  His voice showed signs of weakness.

“Yes, it is a long time.”  It was a mere echo of his words, yet full of meaning.

“Twenty years!” he repeated.  “There has been full time for reflection, and, it may be, for repentance.  Time for growing wiser and better.”

Irene’s eyelids drooped until the long lashes lay in a dark fringed line on her pale cheeks.  When she lifted them they were wet.

“Yes, Hartley,” she answered with much feeling, “there has been, indeed, time for reflection and repentance.  It is no light thing to shadow the whole life of a human being.”