The hand still lay heavy upon his heart; he could not get it removed.
Returning to the house, feeling more uncomfortable for this fruitless effort to rise above what he tried to call an unhealthy depression of spirits consequent on some morbid state of the body, Mr.Delancy was entering the library, when a fresh young face greeted him with light and smiles.
"Good-morning, Rose," said the old gentleman, as his face brightened in the glow of the young girl's happy countenance.

"I am glad to see you;" and he took her hand and held it tightly.
"Good-morning, Mr.Delancy.When did you hear from Irene ?" "Ten days ago." "She was well ?" "Oh yes.

Sit down, Rose; there." And Mr.Delancy drew a chair before the sofa for his young visitor, and took a seat facing her.
"I haven't had a letter from her in six months," said Rose, a sober hue falling on her countenance.
"I don't think she is quite thoughtful enough of her old friends." "And too thoughtful, it may be, of new ones," replied Mr.Delancy, his voice a little depressed from the cheerful tone in which he had welcomed his young visitor.
"These new friends are not always the best friends, Mr.Delancy." "No, Rose.

For my part, I wouldn't give one old friend, whose heart I had proved, for a dozen untried new ones." "Nor I, Mr.Delancy.I love Irene.

I have always loved her.