“She is coming up in July to stay three or four weeks.”

“Ah?  I’m pleased to hear you say so.  I shall then revive old-time memories in her heart.”

“God grant that it may be so!” Rose half started at the solemn tone in which Mr. Delancy spoke.  What could be the meaning of his strangely troubled manner?  Was anything seriously wrong with Irene?  She remembered the confusion into which her impulsive conduct had thrown the wedding-party; and there was a vague rumor afloat that Irene had left her husband a few months afterward and returned to Ivy Cliff.  But she had always discredited this rumor.  Of her life in New York she knew but little as to particulars.  That it was not making of her a truer, better, happier woman, nor a truer, better, happier wife, observation had long ago told her.

“There is a broad foundation of good principles in her character,” said Miss Carman, “and this gives occasion for hope in the future.  She will not go far astray, with her wily enticers, who have only stimulated and given direction, for a time, to her undisciplined impulses.  You know how impatient she has always been under control—­how restively her spirit has chafed itself when a restraining hand was laid upon her.  But there are real things in life of too serious import to be set aside for idle fancies, such as her new friends have dignified with imposing names—­real things, that take hold upon the solid earth like anchors, and hold the vessel firm amid wildly rushing currents.”

“Yes, Rose, I know all that,” replied Mr. Delancy.  “I have hope in the future of Irene; but I shudder in heart to think of the rough, thorny, desolate ways through which she may have to pass with bleeding feet before she reaches that serene future.  Ah! if I could save my child from the pain she seems resolute on plucking down and wearing in her heart!”

“Your dreams have made you gloomy, Mr. Delancy,” said Rose, forcing a smile to her sweet young face.  “Come now, let us be more hopeful.  Irene has a good husband.  A little too much like her in some things, but growing manlier and broader in mental grasp, if I have read him aright.  He understands Irene, and, what is more, loves her deeply.  I have watched them closely.”

“So have I.”  The voice of Mr. Delancy was not so hopeful as that of his companion.

“Still looking on the darker side.”  She smiled again.

“Ah, Rose, my wise young friend,” said Mr. Delancy, “to whom I speak my thoughts with a freedom that surprises even myself, a father’s eyes read many signs that have no meaning for others.”

“And many read them, through fond suspicion, wrong,” replied Rose.

“Well—­yes—­that may be.”  He spoke in partial abstraction, yet doubtfully.

“I must look through your garden,” said the young lady, rising; “you know how I love flowers.”

“Not much yet to hold your admiration,” replied Mr. Delancy, rising also.  “June gives us wide green carpets and magnificent draperies of the same deep color, but her red and golden broideries are few; it is the hand of July that throws them in with rich profusion.”