her morning and evening prayer had gone up since lisping
infancy,--kneeling no longer a child, but a woman, matured through
love, matured, alas! through suffering, prayed for strength and
comfort; prayed that her parents' love might be rendered back into
their own bosoms a hundred fold; prayed that her friend's kindness to
her might not be an occasion of sin against God, and that she might be
enabled to walk with a steady step in the path that lay before her. And
she arose strengthened and comforted.

All the morning she lay quiet and silent on the lounge in the little
sitting-room. Her mother, busied with household matters, only looked in
upon her occasionally, and, as the eyes were always closed, did not
speak, thinking her asleep. Ivy was not asleep. Ten thousand little
sprites flitted swiftly through the chambers of her brain, humming,
singing, weeping, but always busy, busy. Then another tread softly
entered, and she knew her dear old father had drawn a chair close to
her, and was looking into her face. Tears came into her eyes, her lip
involuntarily quivered, and then she felt the pressure of
his----his!--surely that was not her father's kiss! She started up. No,
no! that was not her father's face bending over her,--not her father's
eyes smiling into hers; but, woe for Ivy! her soul thrilled with a
deeper bliss, her heart leaped with a swifter bound, and for a moment
all the experience and suffering and resolutions of the last night were
as if they had never been. Only for a moment, and then with a strong
effort she remembered the impassable gulf.

"A pretty welcome home you have given me!" said Mr. Clerron, lightly.

He saw that something was weighing on her spirits, but did not wish to
distress her by seeming to notice it.