Myra saw this man, and he gave Mr. D.’s message faithfully, even the caressing words of Mrs. D. were not withheld; but when he saw tears swell up and fill the fine eyes which Myra turned upon him as he gave the message—when he saw a gush of passionate tenderness sweep across her face, the man changed gradually in his manner. His eye, his downcast look, the compression of his mouth, all told that something had been kept back. He seemed struggling with himself and Myra saw that all was not as it should be. The young girl had no doubt of this man’s sincerity—she had always believed him to be her friend. How then was she to reconcile this restless manner, this sort of caution that gleamed in his eyes and spoke in every feature of his face, with the frank message of which he was the bearer? After much anxious questioning the man consented to speak, but it was only out of the deepest and most self-sacrificing friendship to her. It was periling the favor of Mr. D. forever, but still he would speak. He would not urge a creature so young and lovely to rush blindfold into the power of a man exasperated as Mr. D. was against her. True, all these promises had been sent; but in reality, the hate of her father had only been aggravated against Mr. Whitney by her flight. Mr. D. was implacable as ever, and instead of receiving his child with kindness, his sole desire was to win her by false protestations into his power again, and then punish her with all his haughty strength. All this was repeated with the most perfect appearance of sincerity. The truth seemed to have been wrested from this man’s heart, only by the solemn obligations of friendship. Myra was very grateful for this friendly warning, and the traitor left her strengthened in her purpose, but with an aching and desolate heart. Not an hour after this interview, Mr. Whitney arrived at New Castle. Various reasons for delay had kept him behind his appointment, but Myra’s agent had been vigilant, and her note reached him as he left the boat. He came directly to the residence of her friend, ignorant of all that had transpired to drive Myra from the protection of her own home. Mr. Whitney had left the young girl gay, blooming, and brilliant, with joyous anticipations—she met him now pale and drooping, her eyes heavy with tears, her form swayed by the weight of her grief, like the stalk of a flower on which the dew has fallen too heavily. “And now,” he said, when she had told him all, “there is but one course for us to pursue, and that, thank Heaven, is one to secure our happiness. This man is not your father, and has no legal authority over you. I will not speak of his injustice to me—of his harshness to you—for in former years I know that he has been kind.” Myra’s eyes filled with grateful tears. There was something in this gentle forbearance that touched her deeply. “Let us be united now, Myra; no one has authority over you. I am, in all things, independent!”