“Think no more about it;” truly it was a request easily made, but how impossible to obey. Why, the very thought of that stranger youth had henceforth the power of an angel spirit which might steal down and trouble the still waters of her heart forever. Myra knew not even yet that this spirit took the form of love. She entered her boudoir again and flung herself upon the couch, but how changed were her feelings—the sweet dream, so tranquil, so full of rosy content, was swept away like a cloud. Her heart was in a tumult, her cheek burned, her eyes filled with tears. She felt indignant that her father should, for one moment, hold a doubt of the being in whom she put such perfect trust. Thus musing with herself, the young girl spent an hour of disquiet, when her reverie was disturbed by a servant, who informed her that Mr. Whitney was in the drawing-room. Her first sensation was a thrill of joy, such as had long, unconsciously, followed his approach. The next was a feeling of reserve, a shy, half distrustful sensation, such as had never possessed her warm, frank nature before. She went down, not, as had been her wont, with the step of a gazelle, and with a glad smile sparkling in her eyes and on her lip, but with a lingering tread and eyes vailed by their snowy lids and dark lashes. She entered the drawing-room so gently that its occupant did not at first observe her. He stood by a marble table, near the window, turning over some books that lay upon it. The light which fell over him was subdued by many a glowing fold of damask that swept over the windows, thus giving the dim look of marble to features so perfectly classical in their outline, that but for the thick waving hair, and the glow of life that pervaded them, the head might have been taken for that of some antique statue. To these manly attractions were added a figure, tall beyond the ordinary standard, sinewy, athletic, and yet full of subtle grace. While he thought himself alone a look of tranquil repose lay upon young Whitney’s features, but the moment he lifted his head and saw the fair girl who stood hesitating by the door, the whole character of his face changed; a glow of animation lighted up his face, and he came forward with all the eager cordiality that her previous frank bearing had always warranted. Myra hesitated before she reached forth her hand, and when she did place it in his, it quivered like an aspen. The young man looked earnestly in her changing face, and then led her to a seat, himself a prey to all the quick apprehension that her unusual restraint was calculated to inspire. A few commonplace words were spoken, then both became silent and preoccupied. At length Myra observed that her father had returned home that morning, but she blushed while saying it, as if the young man could have guessed at the conversation that had given so much pain to herself.