As Myra passed up to her old room she met the household traitor, who had so deliberately misrepresented his friend. The man held out his hand. “No,” said Myra, drawing back with quiet contempt; “for your children’s sake I have not exposed your baseness, but there can be no friendship between us in future.” “So because your father has changed, I am to be censured for misrepresentation,” answered the man with consummate self-possession. “But this is the usual reward of an honest endeavor to serve.” Myra passed on, without reply. Mr. D. was not a man to make partial atonement for an error. A prompt and urgent request was forwarded to Mr. Whitney and his parents, that they should make D. Place, and not Philadelphia, the destination of their journey. Meantime every arrangement was commenced for the wedding, and thus Myra’s path of life lay among blossoms and in the sunshine again. It was a pleasant thing to wait then, for a world of happiness seemed dawning for her in the future. Mr. Whitney came at last, and with him the revered parent, whose consent to his son’s marriage had been frankly given. After all their trials and adventures, the young couple were to be married quietly at last under the shelter of home, surrounded by those who knew and loved them best. You should have seen Myra Clark as she came down the massive staircase in her bridal dress that wedding-night. Her _petite_ figure, graceful as a sylph, was rendered still more ethereal by the misty floating of her bridal vail. The fragrance of a few white blossoms floated through her ringlets, and her small foot, clad in its slipper of snowy satin, scarcely seemed to touch the stairs as she descended. Whitney stood by the open door ready to receive his bride. With her own peculiar and feminine grace she met him; the glow upon her cheek took a deeper rose-tint as she laid her small hand in his. She trembled a little, just enough to give a flower-like tremor to the folds of her vail, and for one instant the shadow of deep thought swept over her face. The bridegroom was very tall, and this gave to Myra a look still more feminine and child-like, as she stood by his side. “Are you ready, dearest?” he said, bending gently over her. She gave a faint start, and lifted her large brown eyes to his with a smile of such deep love and holy trust, as seldom looks up from a soul merely human. That smile was answer enough. The next moment they stood within the broad light that flooded the drawing-room. A few words—a few murmured blessings—perchance a few tears—for the tears of affectionate regret are sometimes the brightest jewels that can be cast at the feet of a bride—and then Myra Clark became a wife. CHAPTER VIII.