Such were Irene Delancy and Hartley Emerson—­lovers and betrothed at the time we present them to our readers.  They met, two years before, at Saratoga, and drew together by a mutual attraction.  She was the first to whom his heart had bowed in homage; and until she looked upon him her pulse had never beat quicker at sight of a manly form.

Mr. Edmund Delancy, a gentleman of some wealth and advanced in years, saw no reason to interpose objections.  The family of Emerson occupied a social position equal with his own; and the young man’s character and habits were blameless.  So far, the course of love ran smooth; and only three months intervened until the wedding-day.

The closer relation into which the minds of the lovers came after their betrothal and the removal of a degree of deference and self-constraint, gave opportunity for the real character of each to show itself.  Irene could not always repress her willfulness and impatience of another’s control; nor her lover hold a firm hand on quick-springing anger when anything checked his purpose.  Pride and adhesiveness of character, under such conditions of mind, were dangerous foes to peace; and both were proud and tenacious.

The little break in the harmonious flow of their lives, noticed as occurring while the tempest raged, was one of many such incidents; and it was in consequence of Mr. Delancy’s observation of these unpromising features in their intercourse that he spoke with so much earnestness about the irreparable ruin that followed in the wake of storms.

At least once a week Emerson left the city, and his books and cases, to spend a day with Irene in her tasteful home; and sometimes he lingered there for two or three days at a time.  It happened, almost invariably, that some harsh notes jarred in the music of their lives during these pleasant seasons, and left on both their hearts a feeling of oppression, or, worse, a brooding sense of injustice.  Then there grew up between them an affected opposition and indifference, and a kind of half-sportive, half-earnest wrangling about trifles, which too often grew serious.

Mr. Delancy saw this with a feeling of regret, and often interposed to restore some broken links in the chain of harmony.

“You must be more conciliating, Irene,” he would often say to his daughter.  “Hartley is earnest and impulsive, and you should yield to him gracefully, even when you do not always see and feel as he does.  This constant opposition and standing on your dignity about trifles is fretting both of you, and bodes evil in the future.”

“Would you have me assent if he said black was white?” she answered to her father’s remonstrance one day, balancing her little head firmly and setting her lips together in a resolute way.

“It might be wiser to say nothing than to utter dissent, if, in so doing, both were made unhappy,” returned her father.

“And so let him think me a passive fool?” she asked.