“Yes, always; and it was mostly your own fault, too.  And that reminds me of what the minister told us in his sermon last Sunday.  He said that there were a great many kinds of trouble in this world—­some coming from the outside and some coming from the inside; that the outside troubles, which we couldn’t help, were generally easiest to be borne; while the inside troubles, which we might have prevented, were the bitterest things in life, because there was remorse as well as suffering.  I understood very well what he meant.”

“I am afraid,” said Irene, speaking partly to herself, “that most of my troubles come from the inside.”

“I’m afraid they do,” spoke out the frank domestic.

“Margaret!”

“Indeed, miss, and I do think so.  If you’d only get right here”—­laying her hand upon her breast—­“somebody beside yourself would be a great deal happier.  There now, child, I’ve said it; and you needn’t go to getting angry with me.”

“They are often our best friends who use the plainest speech,” said Irene.  “No, Margaret, I am not going to be angry with one whom I know to be true-hearted.”

“Not truer-hearted than your husband, Miss Irene; nor half so loving.”

“Why did you say that?” Margaret started at the tone of voice in which this interrogation was made.

“Because I think so,” she answered naively.

Irene looked at her for some moments with a penetrating gaze, and then said, with an affected carelessness of tone—­

“Your preacher and your dreams have made you quite a moralist.”

“They have not taken from my heart any of the love it has felt for you,” said Margaret, tears coming into her eyes.

“I know that, Margaret.  You were always too kind and indulgent, and I always too wayward and unreasonable.  But I am getting years on my side, and shall not always be a foolish girl.”

Snow had now begun to fall thickly, and the late December day was waning toward the early twilight.  Margaret went down stairs and left Irene alone in her chamber, where she remained until nearly tea-time before joining her father.

Mr. Delancy did not altogether feel satisfied in his mind about this unheralded visit from his daughter, with whose wayward moods he was too familiar.  It might be all as she said, but there were intrusive misgivings that troubled him.

At tea-time she took her old place at the table in such an easy, natural way, and looked so pleased and happy, that her father was satisfied.  He asked about her husband, and she talked of him without reserve.

“What day is Hartley coming up?” he inquired.

“I hope to see him on the day before Christmas,” returned Irene.  There was a falling in her voice that, to the ears of Mr. Delancy, betrayed a feeling of doubt.

“He will not, surely, put it off later,” said the father.

“I don’t know,” said Irene.  “He may be prevented from leaving early enough to reach here before Christmas morning.  If there should be a cold snap, and the river freeze up, it will make the journey difficult and attended with delay.”