“Nor the day after that?”

“He did not say when he was coming,” replied Irene, evasively.

“Did not say when?  Did not say when?” Mr. Delancy repeated the sentence two or three times, evidently trying all the while to recall something which had faded from his memory.

“Don’t worry yourself about Hartley,” said Irene, forcing herself to pronounce a name that seemed like fire on her lips.  “Isn’t it enough that I am here?”

“No, it is not enough.”  And her father put his hand to his forehead and looked upward in an earnest, searching manner.

What could Irene say?  What could she do?  The mind of her father was groping about in the dark, and she was every moment in dread lest he should discover the truth and get farther astray from the shock.

No food was taken by either Mr. Delancy or his daughter.  The former grew more entangled in his thoughts, and finally arose from the table, saying, in a half-apologetic way,

“I don’t know what ails me this morning.”

“Where are you going?” asked Irene, rising at the same time.

“Nowhere in particular.  The air is close here—­I’ll sit a while in the portico,” he answered, and throwing open one of the windows he stepped outside.  Irene followed him.

“How beautiful!” said Mr. Delancy, as he sat down and turned his eyes upon the attractive landscape.  Irene did not trust her voice in reply.

“Now go in and finish your breakfast, child.  I feel better; I don’t know what came over me.”  He added the last sentence in an undertone.

Irene returned into the house, but not to resume her place at the table.  Her mind was in an agony of dread.  She had reached the dining-room, and was about to ring for a servant, when she heard her name called by her father.  Running back quickly to the portico, she found him standing in the attitude of one who had been suddenly startled; his face all alive with question and suspense.

“Oh, yes! yes!  I thought you were here this moment!  And so it’s all true?” he said, in a quick, troubled way.

“True?  What is true, father?” asked Irene, as she paused before him.

“True, what you told me yesterday.”

She did not answer.

“You have left your husband?” He looked soberly into her face.

“I have, father.”  She thought it best to use no evasion.

He groaned, sat down in the chair from which he had arisen, and let his head fall upon his bosom.

“Father!” Irene kneeled before him and clasped his hands.  “Father! dear father!”

He laid a hand on her head, and smoothed her hair in a caressing manner.

“Poor child! poor daughter!” he said, in a fond, pitying voice, “don’t take it so to heart.  Your old father loves you still.”

She could not stay the wild rush of feeling that was overmastering her.  Passionate sobs heaved her breast, and tears came raining from her eyes.