Some scales had dropped from her eyes, and she saw clearer.  Yet no repentance for that one act of her life, which involved a series of consequences beyond the reach of conjecture, had found a place in her heart.  There was no looking back from this—­no sober questioning as to the right or necessity which had been involved.  There had been one great mistake—­so she decided the case—­and that was the marriage.

From this fatal error all subsequent evil was born.

Months of waiting and expectation followed, and then came a decree annulling the marriage.

“It is well,” was the simple response of Irene when notice of the fact reached her.

Not even to Rose Carman did she reveal a thought that took shape in her mind, nor betray a single emotion that trembled in her heart.  If there had been less appearance of indifference—­less avoidance of the subject—­her friends would have felt more comfortable as to her state of mind.  The unnatural repose of, exterior was to them significant of a strife within which she wished to conceal from all eyes.

About this time her true, loving friend, Miss Carman, married.  Irene did not stand as one of the bridesmaids at the ceremony.  Rose gently hinted her wishes in the case, but Irene shrunk from the position, and her feeling was respected.  The husband of Rose was a merchant, residing in New York, named Everet.  After a short bridal tour she went to her new home in the city.  Mr. Everet was five or six years her senior, and a man worthy to be her life-companion.  No sudden attachment had grown up between them.  For years they had been in the habit of meeting, and in this time the character of each had been clearly read by the other.  When Mr. Everet asked the maiden’s hand, it, was yielded without a sign of hesitation.

The removal of Rose from the neighborhood of Ivy Cliff greatly disturbed the even-going tenor of Irene’s life.  It withdrew also a prop on which she had leaned often in times of weakness, which would recur very heavily.

“How can I live without you?” she said in tears, as she sat alone with the new-made bride on the eve of her departure; “you have been everything to me, Rose—­strength in weakness; light, when all around was cold and dark; a guide when I had lost my way.  God bless and make you happy, darling!  And he will.  Hearts like yours create happiness wherever they go.”

“My new home will only be a few hours’ distant,” replied Rose; “I shall see you there often.”

Irene sighed.  She had been to the city only a few times since that sad day of separation from her husband.  Could she return again and enter one of its bright social circles?  Her heart said no.  But love drew her too strongly.  In less than a month after Rose became the mistress of a stately mansion, Irene was her guest.  This was just six years from the time when she set up her home there, a proud and happy young wife.  Alas! that hearth was desolate, “its bright fire quenched and gone.”