Mr. Delancy did not rally from this shock.  He leaned heavily against his daughter, and she felt a low tremor in his frame.

“Father!” She spoke tenderly, with her lips to his ear.  “Dear father!”

But he did not reply.

“It is my life-discipline, father,” she said; “I will be happier and better, no doubt, in the end for this severe trial.  Dear father, do not let what is inevitable so break down your heart.  You are my strong, brave, good father, and I shall need now more than ever, your sustaining arm.  There was no help for this.  It had to come, sooner or later.  It is over now.  The first bitterness is past.  Let us be thankful for that, and gather up our strength for the future.  Dear father!  Speak to me!”

Mr. Delancy tried to rally himself, but he was too much broken down by the shock.  He said a few words, in which there was scarcely any connection of ideas, and then, getting up from the sofa, walked about the room, turning one of his hands within the other in a distressed way.

“Oh dear, dear, dear!” he murmured to himself, in a feeble manner.  “I have dreaded this, and prayed that it might not be.  Such wretchedness and disgrace!  Such wretchedness and disgrace!  Had they no patience with each other—­no forbearance—­no love, that it must come to this?  Dear! dear! dear!  Poor child!”

Irene, with her white, wretched face, sat looking at him for some time, as he moved about, a picture of helpless misery; then, going to him again, she drew an arm around his neck and tried to comfort him.  But there was no comfort in her words.  What could she say to reach with a healing power the wound from which his very life-blood was pouring.

“Don’t talk! don’t talk!” he said, pushing Irene away, with slight impatience of manner.  “I am heart-broken.  Words are nothing!”

“Mr. Delancy,” said Rose, now coming to his side, and laying a hand upon his arm, “you must not speak so to Irene.  This is not like you.”

There was a calmness of utterance and a firmness of manner which had their right effect.

“How have I spoken, Rose, dear?  What have I said?” Mr. Delancy stopped and looked at Miss Carman in a rebuked, confused way, laying his hand upon his forehead at the same time.

“Not from yourself,” answered Rose.

“Not from myself!” He repeated her words, as if his thoughts were still in a maze.  “Ah, child, this is dreadful!” he added.  “I am not myself!  Poor Irene!  Poor daughter!  Poor father!”

And the old man lost himself again.

A look of fear now shadowed darkly the face of Irene, and she glanced anxiously from her father’s countenance to that of Rose.  She did not read in the face of her young friend much that gave assurance or comfort.

“Mr. Delancy,” said Rose, with great earnestness of manner, “Irene is in sore trouble.  She has come to a great crisis in her life.  You are older and wiser than she is, and must counsel and sustain her.  Be calm, dear sir—­calm, clear-seeing, wise and considerate, as you have always been.”