o
send him news frequently. I'm going to telegraph this morning."

"Of course," said Irene, with emphasis. "He must understand that _you_
have no such feeling----"

"Oh, he knows that! He knows I am grateful to him--very grateful----"

She broke down again, and sobbed. Irene, without speaking, put her arms
around the girl and kissed her cheek.

Dr. Derwent and his daughter met again at luncheon. Afterwards, Irene
followed into the library.

"I wish to ask you something, father. When you and Arnold spoke about
this hateful thing, did you tell him, unmistakably, that aunt was
slandered?"

"I told him that I myself had no doubt of it."

"Did he seem--do you think that _he_ doubts?"

"Why?"

Irene kept silence, feeling that her impression was too vague to be
imparted.

"Try," said her father, "to dismiss the matter from your thoughts. It
doesn't concern you. You will never hear an allusion to it from Jacks.
Happen what may"--his voice paused, with suggestive emphasis--"you have
nothing to do with it. It doesn't affect your position or your future
in the least."

As she withdrew, Irene was uneasily conscious of altered relations with
her father. The change had begun when she wrote to him announcing her
engagement; since, they had never conversed with the former freedom,
and the shadow now hanging over them seemed to chill their mutual
affection. For the first time, she thought with serious disquiet of the
gulf between old and new that would open at her marriage, of all she
was losing, of the duties she was about to throw off--duties which
appeared so much more real, more sacred, than those she undertook in
their place. Her father's widowerhood had made him dependent upon her
in a higher degree than either of them quite understood until they had
to reflect upon the consequences of parting; and Irene now perceived
that she had dismissed this consideration too lightly. She found
difficulty in explaining her action, her state of mind, her whole self.
Was it really only a few weeks ago? To her present mood, what she had
thought and done seemed a result of youth and inexperience, a condition
long outlived.

When she had sat alone for half an hour in the drawing-room, Eustace
joined her. He said their father had gone out. They talked of
indifferent things till bedtime.

In the morning, the servant who came into Irene's room gave her a note
addressed in the Doctor's hand. It contained the news that Mrs.
Hannaford