THE night had passed wearily for Mr. Delancy, broken by fitful dreams, in which the image of his daughter was always present—­dreams that he could trace to no thoughts or impressions of the day before; and he arose unrefreshed, and with a vague sense of trouble in his heart, lying there like a weight which no involuntary deep inspirations would lessen or remove.  No June day ever opened in fresher beauty than did this one, just four years since the actors in our drama came smiling before us, in the flush of youth and hope and confidence in the far-off future.  The warmth of early summer had sent the nourishing sap to every delicate twig and softly expanding leaf until, full foliaged, the trees around Ivy Cliff stood in kingly attire, lifting themselves up grandly in the sunlight which flooded their gently-waving tops in waves of golden glory.  The air was soft and of crystal clearness; and the lungs drank it in as if the draught were ethereal nectar.

On such a morning in June, after a night of broken and unrefreshing sleep, Mr. Delancy walked forth, with that strange pressure on his heart which he had been vainly endeavoring to push aside since the singing birds awoke him, in the faint auroral dawn, with their joyous welcome to the coming day.  He drew in long draughts of the delicious air; expanded his chest; moved briskly through the garden; threw his arms about to hurry the sluggish flow of blood in his veins; looked with constrained admiration on the splendid landscape that stretched far and near in the sweep of his vision; but all to no purpose.  The hand still lay heavy upon his heart; he could not get it removed.

Returning to the house, feeling more uncomfortable for this fruitless effort to rise above what he tried to call an unhealthy depression of spirits consequent on some morbid state of the body, Mr. Delancy was entering the library, when a fresh young face greeted him with light and smiles.

“Good-morning, Rose,” said the old gentleman, as his face brightened in the glow of the young girl’s happy countenance.  “I am glad to see you;” and he took her hand and held it tightly.

“Good-morning, Mr. Delancy.  When did you hear from Irene?”

“Ten days ago.”

“She was well?”

“Oh yes.  Sit down, Rose; there.”  And Mr. Delancy drew a chair before the sofa for his young visitor, and took a seat facing her.

“I haven’t had a letter from her in six months,” said Rose, a sober hue falling on her countenance.

“I don’t think she is quite thoughtful enough of her old friends.”

“And too thoughtful, it may be, of new ones,” replied Mr. Delancy, his voice a little depressed from the cheerful tone in which he had welcomed his young visitor.

“These new friends are not always the best friends, Mr. Delancy.”

“No, Rose.  For my part, I wouldn’t give one old friend, whose heart I had proved, for a dozen untried new ones.”