d in her heart.

"Excuse me for a few minutes," she said to Mrs. Everet, and, rising,
left the room.

It was as Irene had supposed. On entering the parlor, a gentleman
advanced to meet her, and she stood face to face with Hartley
Emerson!

"Irene," he said, extending his hand.

"Hartley," fell in an irrepressible throb from her lips as she put
her hand in his.

"I could not return to New York without seeing you again," said Mr.
Emerson, as he stood holding the hand of Irene. "We met so briefly,
and were thrown apart again so suddenly, that some things I meant to
say were left unspoken."

He led her to a seat and sat down beside her, still looking intently
in her face. Irene was far from being as calm as when they sat
together the day before. A world of new hopes had sprung up in her
heart since then. She had lain half asleep and half awake nearly all
night, in a kind of delicious dream, from which the morning awoke
her with a cold chill of reality. She had dreamed again since the
sun had risen; and now the dream was changing into the actual.

"Have I done wrong in this, Irene?" he asked.

And she answered,

"No, it is a pleasure to meet you, Hartley."

She had passed through years of self-discipline, and the power
acquired during this time came to her aid. And so she was able to
answer with womanly dignity. It was a pleasure to meet him there,
and she said so.

"There are some things in the past, Irene," said Mr. Emerson, "of
which I must speak, now that I can do so. There are confessions that
I wish to make. Will you hear me?"

"Better," answered Irene, "let the dead past bury its dead."

"I do not seek to justify myself, but you, Irene."

"You cannot alter the estimate I have made of my own conduct," she
replied. "A bitter stream does not flow from a sweet fountain. That
dead, dark, hopeless past! Let it sleep if it will!"

"And what, then, of the future?" asked Mr. Emerson.

"Of the future!" The question startled her. She looked at him with a
glance of eager inquiry.

"Yes, of the future, Irene. Shall it be as the past? or have we both
come up purified from the fire? Has it consumed the dross, and left
only the fine gold? I can believe it in your case, and hope that it
is so in mine. But this I do know, Irene: after suffering and trial
have done their work of abrasion, and I get down to the pure metal
of my heart, I find that your image is fixed there in the
imperishable substance. I did not h