Myra still sat with her face bowed down, lost in painful thought. Her heart was once more in its old home. She thought of the mother, the kind, gentle woman, who had taken her, like a young bird from the parent nest, and up to that very day had warmed her as it were with the pulses of her own heart into life and happiness. She thought of the proud old man, proud but full of strong affections; self-willed but generous; who was dignified and grand even in his errors—of the old man who had loved her so long and so well. She thought of him, too, and the tears rolled fast and heavily down her cheeks. It was a terrible romance to her, poor thing. Nothing but a firm sense of right could have induced her to proceed a step further in it. She was no young heroine, but a noble, strong-minded woman, suffering keenly, but firm because she believed herself to be in the right. There was silence for a time, for the young girls respected the grief of their friend, then the eldest arose and leaning over Myra’s chair, began with gentle delicacy to smooth and arrange the light tresses that had been so completely disordered by the storm. “And when you have found Mr. Whitney, Myra, when you have prevented the meeting, how will it all end? In a wedding, and a reconciliation at the great house, no doubt,” said the sweet girl, anxious to draw her friend from the painful reverie into which she had fallen. “No,” answered Myra, brushing the tears from her eyes, “I expect nothing like a reconciliation. When I abandoned D. Place last night, it was with no thoughts of return. I gave up every thing then.” “Every thing but love; every thing but the man who loves you,” whispered her friend. “Even love—even him—I gave up all. Do you think that I have a dream of marrying him now? That I intend to surround myself with the vulgar _eclat_ of a ‘runaway match?’ It was to save his life that I left my home. I will meet him on the way, warn him of my father’s hatred, and free him of all the engagements that have existed between us.” “And where will you go then, dear friend?” “I have relatives in the West Indies, as I have been told, and I had resolved to seek their protection before leaving home.” “Then there will be no wedding after all, and we shall lose you altogether,” cried the young girl, half in tears at the thoughts of this abrupt separation. “Not forever; I am sure we shall meet again,” answered Myra, casting an anxious glance through the window, for the conversation was arousing old feelings too keenly within her. “But it will soon be daylight.” “I have just aroused father, and told him all; he will go with you to New Castle,” said the younger girl, who had been absent from the room. “The stage starts by daybreak.”