“Mother—mother, he will not do this thing—he will not meet Mr. Whitney with a challenge!” cried the harassed young creature, throwing herself into the arms of Mrs. D., who stood in the chamber of her child, where she had retired from the angry storm below. “I fear it, alas! he deems himself braved and insulted,” said the good lady, weeping bitterly. “O Myra! why did we permit Whitney to write—why consent to his coming to the neighborhood?” “Why, why, indeed! if it is but to meet his death?” cried the poor girl, wringing her hands. “But, mother, this can not be; my father will relent!” Mrs. D. shook her head. “Not where he deems his honor or authority contemned, my poor child!” “Oh, what can we do—what can we do?” “His anger is so terrible—if you could but give up all thoughts of the man; if you only could, my child.” Myra withdrew from her mother’s arms, her slight form seemed to dilate and nerve itself for some great effort. The tears hung unshed upon her eyelashes, and her lips were pressed firmly together. The thoughts that swept across her sweet face were quick and painful; she scarcely seemed to breathe, so intense was the struggle within that motionless bosom. “Mother,” she said, in a low and husky voice, so low that it was almost a whisper—“mother, I will give him up. It is to save his life or the life of your husband; I will give him up!” While the unhappy lady stood wondering at the strange calmness with which these words were spoken, Myra passed down-stairs once more, and stood in her father’s presence, calm, resolute, but very sorrowful. “Father, I love the man whom you would challenge, whom you would force to the extremities of life or death. How dearly, how wholly I love him, you can never believe, or this agony would have been spared me. Father, you know of his coming; he is already on the way; thus it is out of my power to prevent that which so offends you. Let him come; let him depart in peace, and here I solemnly promise never to speak to him again. Father, I give him up, but it is to save his life or yours!” The young girl ceased speaking; the words she had uttered were pronounced hurriedly and with firmness, but the white lips, the heavy trouble that clouded her eyes with something more touching than tears, revealed all the heroism of her sacrifice. You could see that to save a human life, she had given up all that made her own life valuable. It was strange to see so much heroism in a form so gentle and so frail; it was strange that this beautiful spirit of self-sacrifice should prove powerless to curb the wrathful spirit that possessed the proud man before whom she pleaded, but his answer was relentless. “No!” he replied. “That which I have said is immutable! If this man comes so near my house as the next town, he shall answer for the presumption with his life, or I will sacrifice mine!” Myra stood for a moment looking in that frowning face, and as she gazed her own became painfully calm.