“What’s the matter, Irene?  Have you been sick?” asked Mr. Delancy, in a choking voice.

“No, father, I’m very well.”  You would never have recognized that voice as the voice of Irene.

“No, child, you are not well.  What ails you?  Why are you here in so strange a way and looking so strangely?”

“Do I look strangely?” There was a feeble effort to awaken a smile, which only gave her face a ghastly expression.

“Is Hartley with you?”

“No.”  Her voice was fuller and more emphatic as she uttered this word.  She tried to look steadily at her father, but her eyes moved aside from the range of his vision.

For a little while there was a troubled silence with all.  Rose had placed an arm around the waist of Irene and drawn her to the sofa, on which they were now sitting; Mr. Delancy stood before them.  Gradually the cold, almost blank, expression of Irene’s face changed and the old look came back.

“My daughter,” said Mr. Delancy.

“Father”—­Irene interrupted him—­“I know what you are going to say.  My sudden, unannounced appearance, at this time, needs explanation.  I am glad dear Rose is here—­my old, true friend”—­and she leaned against Miss Carman—­“I can trust her.”

The arm of Rose tightened around the waist of Irene.

“Father”—­the voice of Irene fell to a deep, solemn tone; there was no emphasis on one word more than on another; all was a dead level; yet the meaning was as full and the involved purpose as fixed as if her voice had run through the whole range of passionate intonation—­“Father, I have come back to Ivy Cliff and to you, after having suffered shipwreck on the voyage of life.  I went out rich, as I supposed, in heart-treasures; I come back poor.  My gold was dross, and the sea has swallowed up even that miserable substitute for wealth.  Hartley and I never truly loved each other, and the experiment of living together as husband and wife has proved a failure.  We have not been happy; no, not from the beginning.  We have not even been tolerant or forbearing toward each other.  A steady alienation has been in progress day by day, week by week, and month by month, until no remedy is left but separation.  That has been, at length, applied, and here I am!  It is the third time that I have left him, and to both of us the act is final.  He will not seek me, and I shall not return.”

There had come a slight flush to the countenance of Irene before she commenced speaking, but this retired again, and she looked deathly pale.  No one answered her—­only the arm of Rose tightened like a cord around the waist of her unhappy friend.

“Father,” and now her voice fluttered a little, “for your sake I am most afflicted.  I am strong enough to bear my fate—­but you!”

There was a little sob—­a strong suppression of feeling—­and silence.

“Oh, Irene! my child! my child!” The old man covered his face with his hands, sobbed, and shook like a fluttering leaf.  “I cannot bear this!  It is too much for me!” and he staggered backward.  Irene sprung forward and caught him in her arms.  He would have fallen, but for this, to the floor.  She stood clasping and kissing him wildly, until Rose came forward and led them both to the sofa.