storm. That such were her thoughts her words made evident, for she
said, glancing toward the window--

"If there should be a deep snow, and the boats stop running, how can
Hartley reach here in time?"

On the next morning the sun rose bright and warm for the season.
Several inches of snow had fallen, giving to the landscape a wintry
whiteness, but the wind was coming in from the south, genial as
spring. Before night half the snowy covering was gone.

"We had our fears for nothing," said Mr. Delancy, on the second day,
which was as mild as the preceding one. "All things promise well. I
saw the boats go down as usual; so the river is open still."

Irene did not reply. Mr. Delancy looked at her curiously, but her
face was partly turned away and he did not get its true expression.

The twenty-fourth came. No letter had been received by Irene, nor
had she written to New York since her arrival at Ivy Cliff.

"Isn't it singular that you don't get a letter from Hartley?" said
Mr. Delancy.

Irene had been sitting silent for some time when her father made
this remark.

"He is very busy," she said, in reply.

"That's no excuse. A man is never too busy to write to his absent