“Oh, you are here, daughter,” said a middle-aged and gentle lady as she entered the boudoir. “No, not very late, but do you know that your father has just arrived and is inquiring for you?”
“My father here, and I not half ready to go down!” cried Myra, eagerly gathering up her hair, while, with the wonderful mobility natural to her features, the whole tone of her face changed. The dreamy, almost languid expression vanished in an instant. The warm glow of her affectionate nature broke through every feature like flame hidden in the heart of a pearl. Her cheek, her mouth, her white forehead were full of animation; her brown eyes sparkled with delight. With her whole being she loved the man whom she believed to be her father, and for the gentle woman who stood gazing upon her with so much affection as her toilet was completed, Myra’s devotion was almost more than the natural love of a child for its mother. Scarcely a minute elapsed before the young girl was ready to go down. Another minute and she was in the arms of a fine and noble-looking man who stood by the breakfast-room door eagerly watching for her. During many weeks he had been absent from his home, and he could not feel thoroughly welcomed back again while Myra was not by to greet him.
It was a joyous family party that gathered around the breakfast-table that morning. The eyes of that gentle wife wandered, with a look of grateful affection, from the noble face of her husband to meet the sparkling glance of her child; for Myra was more than a child to her. Rejoiced to be once more in the bosom of his family, Mr. D. was more than usually animated and agreeable. There was not a hidden thought or a disunited feeling in the little family group.
“And whom have you had to visit you since I went away, Myra? What new conquest have you made? Tell me all about it, child,” said Mr. D., smiling, as he received the coffee-cup of Sevres china from the hands of his wife.
Myra laughed—a clear, ringing laugh, that had more of hearty glee in it than any thing you ever heard.
“Oh, we have had crowds of visitors, gallants without number. Ladies like a swarm of humming-birds, and—and—oh, yes; we had one very singular and romantic person, a namesake and intimate friend of yours, papa. I wrote you about him, but you never mentioned him at all in your reply.”
“Oh, yes; I remember,” said Mr. D.; “a grave, gentlemanly old man, with just gray hairs enough to make him interesting, and the most winning manners. He carried a little Bible with a gold clasp in his bosom—I remember the description well. What of him, Myra? You lost your heart, of that the letter told me;—but who was this mysterious person? Pray, enlighten me.”
Myra and her mother exchanged glances. A faint crimson broke over the elder lady’s face, and the young girl looked a little puzzled.
“Why, papa, how strangely you talk. This gentleman knows you well; he is a member of the legislature, and his seat is close by yours in the house,” said Myra.
“Nonsense, child; there is but one man of my name in the house, and he has not been absent from Harrisburg a day during the session; besides, he has not a white hair in his head, and never carries small Bibles with gold clasps to exhibit to young ladies. You have had some impostor here. What did the interesting gentleman want?”