A vague idea of the truth did evidently flash across the young man’s mind, for he turned another long and earnest look upon her face, which was now glowing crimson to her temples, and when he turned his eyes away, the faintest possible smile stole over his lips. “It is,” he said, with a faint sigh—“it is now more than two months since I arrived in Philadelphia. All that time your kind mamma has received me as a guest. Perhaps I should not have accepted this hospitality without first convincing her that I was not unworthy of it; but I found it so sweet to be taken on trust, so flattering to be valued for myself alone, that I had almost forgotten the reasonable demands of society. I ought long since to have convinced her that it was no impostor to whom her kindness had been extended.” “Impostor!” exclaimed Myra, with a smile that told how impossible she thought it that even suspicion should be attached to him. “What if I were to be suspected as such?” added Whitney with an answering smile. “I would not believe it—I would believe no wrong of you, though your own lips asserted it!” was the generous reply. The color swept over young Whitney’s face, and there was something in his eyes that deepened the crimson on Myra’s cheek; but he only answered in a low and earnest voice: “I thank you; with my whole heart I thank you for this confidence.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he took from his pocket several letters which, with a hand that trembled somewhat, he presented to the young girl. She took them to the window, and, half shaded by the curtains, began to read, rejoicing in the obscurity, for she felt a terror that the quick beating of her heart might become visible. The letters were from several of the first men in America-men whose autographs had become familiar to Myra upon the public records of the land. Nothing could have been more ample than the testimonials that these men gave of the high worth, talent, and position sustained by young Whitney. Myra read these letters with a feeling of proud triumph. Her trust in him was sustained; she had never distrusted his worth, and in her hand she held the proud power of crushing every doubt that her father might have had. Merit to which the highest and purest in the land bore such testimony could never again become subject of dispute. She returned to Mr. Whitney. The generous enthusiasm that wholly possessed her beamed in every lineament of a face lovely in itself, but most remarkable for a quick and brilliant expression seldom equaled in the human countenance. “Mr. Whitney, may I retain these only a short time? My father—he will be pleased to see them.” Myra was petite and slight in her person, almost as a fairy. As she stood clasping the letters between her hands, and with her eyes uplifted toward him, those eyes, so brilliant with every feeling of the heart, a prettier contrast with his tall and stately form could not well be imagined.