It often happens that persons of strong and powerful organization become the slaves of their own will, and act in opposition to their best feelings and cool judgment, merely because that will has been expressed. Pride, stern, commanding pride, such as must have been the characteristic of a man like Mr. D., shrinks from the confession of fallibility, which a change of purpose too surely acknowledges. Imperious from nature and from that right of command which is so readily yielded to the rich even in our republican country, he had expressed his dislike and opposition to Mr. Whitney, and maintained it, not that he believed his suspicions of unworthiness just, but because they had been once expressed; and he, though generous, noble, affectionate, and filled with love for his adopted child, was the slave of his own will—that which he had said must be. Upon the night of the storm this man had walked hours upon the veranda in front of his house, with the thunder booming and clashing overhead, and with the fierce lightning glaring across his pale face—and why? Not that he did not feel his heart tremble with every roar of the thunder, not that each blaze of lightning did not take away his breath. He was afraid of lightning, and for that very reason chose to brave it. Even the fear that was constitutional, that had grown and strengthened with him from childhood must yield to his will. After that night of storm, when the strong man had wrestled with his better feelings as he had wrestled with his fear, to conquer both, he awoke to find his daughter gone. Like the lightning, she had disappeared, leaving him nothing to contend against. At first he would not believe the truth; even the wild anguish of his wife, who had lost her child, and refused to be comforted, seemed groundless. He would not believe in the effect of his own violence; but when the day passed by, when messenger after messenger returned, bearing no tidings of his daughter, the anguish which he endured could no longer be held under control. Strong as his pride of authority, deep and earnest as his nature, was his love for the young girl just driven from beneath his roof. Why had she been forced to go? Even to his own heart he could give no answer, save that he had willed her to love according to his wishes, and found her unable to wrestle with her affections as he had wrestled with the lightning. And now all the injustice of this obstinate adhesion to his own will became palpable to him, as it had long been to those who had suffered by it. With the impulse of a heart really capable of great magnanimity, he longed to make reparation to his child. The half of his great possessions he would have given for the privilege of holding her once more to his bosom, without the painful necessity of explanation. But a sleepless night was again followed by search and disappointment. It was strange how lonely and desolate that spacious house seemed when Myra was away.