“Yes.  The boat is coming, and he says that he must be in the city to-night.”

Irene sat down, looking pale and troubled.

“Why have you remained away from Hartley ever since his arrival?” asked Mr. Delancy, fixing his eyes upon Irene and evincing some displeasure.

Irene did not answer, but her father saw the color coming back to her face.

“I think, from his manner, that he was hurt by your singular treatment.  What possessed you to do so?”

“Because I was not pleased with him,” said Irene.  Her voice was now steady.

“Why not?”

“I wished him to go to the arbor.”

“He was your guest, and, in simple courtesy, if there was no other motive, you should have let his wishes govern your movements,” Mr. Delancy replied.

“He is always opposing me!” said Irene, giving way to a flood of tears and weeping for a time bitterly.

“It is not at all unlikely, my daughter,” replied Mr. Delancy, after the tears began to flow less freely, “that Hartley is now saying the same thing of you, and treasuring up bitter things in his heart.  I have no idea that any business calls him to New York to-night.”

“Nor I. He takes this means to punish me,” said Irene.

“Don’t take that for granted.  Your conduct has blinded him, and he is acting now from blind impulse.  Before he is half-way to New York he will regret this hasty step as sincerely as I trust you are already regretting its occasion.”

Irene did not reply.

“I did not think,” he resumed, “that my late earnest remonstrance would have so soon received an illustration like this.  But it may be as well.  Trifles light as air have many times proved the beginning of life-longs separations between friends and lovers who possessed all the substantial qualities for a life-long and happy companionship.  Oh, my daughter, beware! beware of these little beginnings of discord.  How easy would it have been for you to have yielded to Hartley’s wishes!—­how hard will it to endure the pain that must now be suffered!  And remember that you do not suffer alone; your conduct has made him an equal sufferer.  He came up all the way from the city full of sweet anticipations.  It was for your sake that he came; and love pictured you as embodying all attractions.  But how has he found you?  Ah, my daughter, your caprice has wounded the heart that turned to you for love.  He came in joy, but goes back in sorrow.”

Irene went up to her chamber, feeling sadder than she had ever felt in her life; yet, mingling, with her sadness and self-reproaches, were complaining thoughts of her lover.  For a little half-playful pettishness was she to be visited with a punishment like this?  If be had really loved her—­so she queried—­would be have flung himself away after this hasty fashion?  Pride came to her aid in the conflict of feeling, and gave her self-control and endurance.  At tea-time she met her father, and surprised him with her calm, almost cheerful, aspect.  But his glance was too keen not to penetrate the disguise.  After tea, she sat reading—­or at least affecting to read—­in the portico, until the evening shadows came down, and then she retired to her chamber.