“Father, father! you have reflected. Oh, say that you will not provoke Mr. Whitney into this death-strife when he comes.” Mr. D. paused for one moment, a shade of irresolution swept across his features, but it left them more pale, more resolute than before; he turned away without a word of answer, and Myra disappeared. That night, close upon the hour of twelve, two people, a man and a woman, stood near a back entrance of Mr. D.’s dwelling. The female held an umbrella, dripping and drenched with rain; the man stood with his ear bent to the door, listening. At last, amid the storm, he heard a key turn and a bolt withdrawn; then the door swung open, and Myra appeared, wrapped in a large shawl, and standing by a little trunk which the slender girl had dragged step by step down the lofty staircase. “Carry it carefully; there is neither lock nor key; it was the only one I could reach,” she whispered, dragging her humble burden toward the man, who swung it to his shoulders and disappeared in the darkness. Myra drew close to the woman, and sheltered by the dripping umbrella, followed after. A walk of some distance brought them to a carriage which stood waiting back of the stables; the steps were down, the horses and vehicle all drenched with rain, and furiously shaken by the wind, stood ready to receive her. She sprang, pale and breathless, into the frail shelter. Her faithful friend was about to mount the seat. “One word,” said Myra, bending her white face into the storm; “the turnpike gate—you may be known there if the man sees you. The storm rages so fiercely he may not be aroused, but if he is, make no answer; your voice, my good friend, would betray you, and this kindness to me might be your ruin with my father. If this man calls, do not speak; the gate is old, the horses good, the carriage strong; be resolute, and drive on as if nothing were in the way. Do you understand? trample the old gate down, and that without a word. It will open your way back again.” “I will drive through the gate; never fear,” was the prompt reply, and the man sprang to his seat. One grateful shake of the hand, a smothered “God bless you, Miss Myra,” from the good woman who had risked so much for her, and Myra fell back in the carriage. The man was obliged to drive very slowly, for the night was intensely dark, and he only kept the road by the gleams of lightning that ever and anon flashed over it. At length they came to the turnpike gate that stretched its sodden timbers in a dark line across the road. The tempest was high, and every precaution was made to avoid the least noise, but the old toll-gatherer had a well-trained and most acute ear. Just as the driver was dismounting to try the lock of his gate, out came the old man, half-dressed, and with a candle in his hand that flared out the moment it felt a breath of the tempest. “Halloa! who goes there?” shouted the old fellow.