“Certainly; do with them as you please,” he said; “but you must not allow your father to suppose that I exhibit them from ostentation.” “Oh, he will not think that!” cried Myra, extending her hand, for her guest was about to take his leave. “He will never think any thing that is not noble and good of you, I am sure.” “To-morrow, then—to-morrow I will call for the letters.” “Yes, to-morrow,” replied Myra; and while a servant opened the door for her guest, she entered her father’s study. Mr. D. was seated by his escritoir, reading some papers. He looked up as Myra entered, and smiled kindly upon her. “What visitor have you had?” he inquired, folding up the paper in his hand. “Did I not hear some one go out a moment since?” “Yes, sir; it was Mr. Whitney.” Mr. D. tossed the paper he held upon the escritoir, and his brow contracted. “Mr. Whitney again! Have I not told you, Myra, that no man of whose character I am not well informed, shall visit my house? How can you thus receive a person of whom you know nothing?” “But, papa, I do know all about him, now, and so may you; only read these letters, and you will find that his family is as good as ours; his character irreproachable; his position every thing that can warrant the acquaintance he has sought.” Mr. D. took the letters very coldly, and without another word proceeded to read them. Myra watched his countenance with a palpitating heart. The frown remained immovable on his forehead, and his mouth relaxed nothing of its stern expression. Coldly and deliberately he read the letters through; laid them down one by one, and then placing his hand upon the parcel, turned to his daughter. “What proof have we that these are not forgeries?” he said. Myra’s heart swelled indignantly. She could hardly force herself to answer. It seemed as if her father had determined to receive no evidence in favor of the man, against whom he had taken a prejudice that, to her warm nature, seemed most unjust and causeless. “The handwriting, the autographs, are they not genuine? are they not sufficient?” Mr. D. took up one of the letters and examined it closely. “The letters may be genuine; but what proof have we that this young man came by them honorably—in short, that his name is Whitney, or that he is at all the person for whom he represents himself?” “Oh, papa, this is too much! Only see this young gentleman yourself, and then judge if he can be suspected of obtaining those letters by dishonorable means!”