“Here, young lady!” said Mr. D. as Myra entered the room; “here is a letter from that Whitney again—a letter to me—asking permission to visit you.” Myra drew a deep breath; in her agitation she had forgotten that this letter might be expected, and so long as her father’s anger had only this source, she could withstand it. “Well, papa, and you will answer it?” said the young girl, gently, but still with some tremor of the voice. “I will!” was the angry reply; “I will answer it as such presumption deserves!” “Surely—surely, papa, you will not forget that Mr. Whitney is a gentleman, and deserving of courteous treatment?” “I forget nothing!” was the curt reply; and without further argument Mr. D. left the room, and in half an hour after an old colored man was galloping toward Wilmington, with a letter, directed to Mr. Whitney, in his pocket. What that letter contained might have been guessed from the hasty and blotted address, had it not been written black as night on the angry forehead of Mr. D. when he sat down to breakfast that morning. A few days went by—days of keen anxiety to poor Myra and her gentle mother; then was the young girl summoned once more to the presence of Mr. D. She found him white with rage—deeper and more terrible rage than his fine features had ever exhibited before; a letter was clenched tightly in his hand; his fingers worked convulsively around the crushed paper as he addressed the trembling girl. “Twice—twice in my life have I been insulted, girl! By your father once—by your lover now. He is coming here! He will be in Wilmington in a few days, will he! Let him come; but as I live—as I live, girl, he shall never leave that place alive! This insult shall be atoned then and there.” “O father!” was all poor Myra could say. “If he is a gentleman, he shall answer this _as_ a gentleman. If he is what I suppose, then I will chastise this insolence as I would a menial. When once we meet, one or the other will never return alive.” Myra shuddered, her pale lips refused to utter the words that sprang to them, and she stood before the angry man with her hands clasped, but motionless as a statue. At length she gathered strength to utter a single sentence. “Father, you will not challenge Mr. Whitney? It would be terrible; it would kill me.” “If he comes within my reach, if he dares to intrude his presence even into the neighborhood, he shall answer it with his life or mine!” was the stern reply. Myra turned away trembling and heart-sick; she knew that this was no idle threat, no mere burst of vivid passion that would die within the hour. Her lover would be in Wilmington in a few days; it was a firm but courteous announcement to this effect that had so exasperated the man whom she had just left.