After the Storm. Arthur Timothy Shay

and her husband went back to the city, with a promise to spend Christmas at the old homestead.

      Two weeks passed. It was the twentieth of December. Without previous intimation, Irene came up alone to Ivy Cliff, startling her father by coming in suddenly upon him one dreary afternoon, just as the leaden sky began to scatter down the winter's first offering of snow.

      "My daughter!" he exclaimed, so surprised that he could not move from where he was sitting.

      "Dear father!" she answered with a loving smile, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him.

      "Where is Hartley?" asked the old man, looking past Irene toward the door through which she had just entered.

      "Oh, I left him in New York," she replied.

      "In New York! Have you come alone?"

      "Yes. Christmas is only five days off, you know, and I am here to help you prepare for it. Of course, Hartley cannot leave his business."

      She spoke in an excited, almost gay tone of voice. Mr. Delancy looked at her earnestly. Unpleasant doubts flitted through his mind.

      "When will your husband come up?" he inquired.

      "At Christmas," she answered, without hesitation.

      "Why didn't you write, love?" asked Mr. Delancy. "You have taken me by surprise, and set my nerves in a flutter."

      "I only thought about it last evening. One of my sudden resolutions."

      And she laughed a low, fluttering laugh. It might have been an error, but her father had a fancy that it did not come from her heart.

      "I will run up stairs and put off my things," she said, moving away.

      "Did you bring a trunk?"

      "Oh yes; it is at the landing. Will you send for it?"

      And Irene went, with quick steps, from the apartment, and ran up to the chamber she still called her own. On the way she met Margaret.

      "Miss Irene!" exclaimed the latter, pausing and lifting her hands in astonishment. "Why, where did you come from?"

      "Just arrived in the boat. Have come to help you get ready for Christmas."

      "Please goodness, how you frightened me!" said the warm-hearted domestic, who had been in the family ever since Irene was a child, and was strongly attached to her. "How's Mr. Emerson?"

      "Oh, he's well, thank you, Margaret."

      "Well now, child, you did set me all into a fluster. I thought maybe you'd got into one of your tantrums, and come off and left your husband."

      "Why, Margaret!" A crimson flush mantled the face of Irene.

      "You must excuse me, child, but just that came into my head," replied Margaret. "You're very downright and determined sometimes; and there isn't anything hardly that you wouldn't do if the spirit was on you. I'm glad it's all right. Dear me! dear me!"

      "Oh, I'm not quite so bad as you all make me out," said Irene, laughing.

      "I don't think you are bad," answered Margaret, in kind deprecation, yet with a freedom of speech warranted by her years and attachment to Irene. "But you go off in such strange ways—get so wrong-headed sometimes—that there's no counting on you."

      Then, growing more serious, she added—

      "The fact is, Miss Irene, you keep me feeling kind of uneasy all the time. I dreamed about you last night, and maybe that has helped to put me into a fluster now."

      "Dreamed about me!" said Irene, with a degree of interest in her manner.