Twilight was falling when Irene came down from her room and joined her father in the library.  Mr. Delancy looked into her face narrowly as she entered.  The dim light of the closing day was not strong enough to give him its true expression; but he was not deceived as to its troubled aspect.

“And so Hartley will not be here to-day,” he said, in a tone that expressed both disappointment and concern.

“No.  I looked for him confidently.  It is strange.”

There was a constraint, a forced calmness in Irene’s voice that did not escape her father’s notice.

“I hope he is not sick,” said Mr. Delancy.

“Oh no.”  Irene spoke with a sudden earnestness; then, with failing tones, added—­

“He should have been here to-day.”

She sat down near the open grate, shading her face with a hand-screen, and remained silent and abstracted for some time.

“There is scarcely a possibility of his arrival to-night,” said Mr. Delancy.  He could not get his thoughts away from the fact of his son-in-law’s absence.

“He will not be here to-night,” replied Irene, a cold dead level in her voice, that Mr. Delancy well understood to be only a blind thrown up to conceal her deeply-disturbed feelings.

“Do you expect him to-morrow, my daughter?” asked Mr. Delancy, a few moments afterward, speaking as if from a sudden thought or a sudden purpose.  There was a meaning in his tones that showed his mind to be in a state not prepared to brook evasion.

“I do,” was the unhesitating answer; and she turned and looked calmly at her father, whose eyes rested with a fixed, inquiring gaze upon her countenance.  But half her face was lit by a reflection from the glowing grate, while half lay in shadow.  His reading, therefore was not clear.

If Irene had shown surprise at the question, her father would have felt better satisfied.  He meant it as a probe; but if a tender spot was reached, she had the self-control not to give a sign of pain.  At the tea-table Irene rallied her spirits and talked lightly to her father; it was only by an effort that he could respond with even apparent cheerfulness.

Complaining of a headache, Irene retired, soon after tea, to her room, and did not come down again during the evening.

The next day was Christmas.  It rose clear and mild as a day in October.  When Irene came down to breakfast, her pale, almost haggard, face showed too plainly that she had passed a night of sleeplessness and suffering.  She said, “A merry Christmas,” to her father, on meeting him, but there was no heart in the words.  It was almost impossible to disguise the pain that almost stifled respiration.  Neither of them did more than make a feint at eating.  As Mr. Delancy arose from the table, he said to Irene—­

“I would like to see you in the library, my daughter.”

She followed him passively, closing the door behind her as she entered.