It was hard to resist that pleading voice, those eyes so full of hopeful tenderness, but Myra drew away her hand with an air of gentle dignity, and a painful smile parted her lips. “No,” she said, “no; I am here of my own will, unsolicited, unexpected. It must not be said that your wife ran away from her father’s roof only to be married.” The proud delicacy with which this was spoken—so earnest in its simplicity—left no room for a doubt. Mr. Whitney did not plead with her, though greatly disappointed; he merely took her hand, with a smile, and said: “But this seems like rejecting me altogether. Surely there is too much of pride here. Would you suffer thus to save a life, and then render that life valueless, Myra?” The color came and went upon Myra’s pale cheek. Now that he was by her side, her hand in his, those eyes upon her face, the poor girl felt how impossible it was to part from him forever. “I have friends—relatives in the West Indies,” she said; “let me go to them. Come to me there, with the frank and full consent of your parents to our union, and I will be your wife.” “No, not there, not so far. In Philadelphia—let me place you under the protection of your friends there. I will visit my parents—their presence and full consent shall sanction our marriage. Will not this arrangement satisfy even your delicacy, beloved?” Again the warm rose tinge came and went on Myra’s cheek, and the tears that still swam in her eyes grew bright as diamonds with the smile that broke through them. “Yes,” she said, “this is enough.” Three hours from that time Myra and her lover were on their way to Philadelphia, but the good clergyman and his wife went with them from New Castle, and left their sweet charge with her friends, while Mr. Whitney proceeded to the home of his parents. And now, when the necessity for resistance was gone, the reaction of all this wild excitement swept over and prostrated her. Like a plant that keeps green so long as the frost is in its leaves, but withers and droops with the first glow of sunshine, her strength gave way, and there was a time when her very life seemed in jeopardy. Thus weak and feeble, poor Myra lay upon her couch in the quiet gloom of her sick-chamber, and shrinking from the slightest sound, with that sensitive dread which was itself a pain, she heard a noise upon the stairs. It seemed like the hesitating tread of a man, blended with the eager and suppressed remonstrance of some person who desired to check his progress. Myra began to tremble, for even this was enough to shake every nerve of her slight frame. She lifted her pale hand, put back the tresses from her temple, and made a faint effort to lift her head from the pillow, but in vain. “My child—my child refuse to see her father? I will not believe it!” “Father! father!” broke from the lips of that pale girl, and she sank on her pillow gasping for breath.