“You know,” answered Myra, in a sad voice, “you know what has passed to-day in this house; tell me—for much depends on your answer, and I can hold counsel with no one else beneath this roof—tell me, do you believe that if Mr. Whitney should arrive in Wilmington to-morrow, my father would find him out and put his cruel threat into execution.” “You know Mr. D. Is he not determined; did he ever swerve from a resolution once formed?” was the mild and sinister reply. “Then you honestly believe that he would challenge Mr. Whitney?” was the anxious rejoinder. “Has he not said it, Myra?” “Then if you think so—you who always look on events so still and passionless—I have but to go on,” said Myra, in accents that bespoke all the grief this conviction fastened on her young heart. “What do you mean, Myra—what is it you contemplate?” said the confidant, with a gleam of satisfaction in her downcast eyes. “I am going from this house to-night. Before Mr. Whitney reaches Wilmington, I will see him and prevent this meeting.” “You, Myra! you—what will your father say? What will the world think?” “It is to save life!” answered Myra. “My own soul tells me that I am right.” The wily confidant dropped her head upon her hand, when she fell into a moment’s thought. With all her apparent apathy, she knew well how to excite the resolution of a generous and ardent nature like Myra’s, while seeming to oppose it. The arguments that she used appealed entirely to those selfish considerations which were sure to be cast away with disdain by the young creature on whom they were urged, and Myra went out from the interview more impressed than ever with the necessity of putting her project into immediate operation. The storm that had been threatening all day, came on at nightfall with all the rush and violence of a tempest, but this scene suited well with the excitement and wild wish for action which swelled in the young girl’s heart, even as the elements heaved and struggled without. She sat by the window, gazing upon the storm; the trees tossing their branches to and fro like giants reveling in the wind; the rain sweeping downward in wreaths and sheets of silvery water whenever the lightning glared over it; and afar off the distant bay, heaving into sight, as it were, from the very bosom of darkness, and sinking back again when the lightning withdrew the sweep of its fiery wing. Mr. D., full of unrest as the elements, was pacing the veranda—his face was unnaturally pale in the gleams of lightning, and he paced up and down, unconscious or heedless of the water-drifts that now and then swept over him. Poor Myra sat watching him; the storm within her own breast and the tempest without, imparted to her spirit a wild and reckless courage. She stepped out on the veranda; the rain beat in her pale face, the lightning glared across her eyes, already more than brilliant; she met her father in his walk, and touched his arm with her cold hand.