“We have received one other stranger here,” she said at length, making an effort to look up; “a very talented and agreeable gentleman, whom I met by accident when out on an excursion.”
“Indeed; and who is he?” inquired Mr. D. in a grave tone, and casting a glance at his wife that had a shade of displeasure in it.
“He seems a most estimable young man, full of talent and generous feeling,” said Mrs. D., anxious to save her child from the embarrassment of an answer.
“He seems—who is he?” demanded the husband; his voice was stern and his look suspicious. “Myra, who is this man?”
“His name is Whitney,” replied the young girl, resuming something of her natural courage. “I have made no further inquiries; but he is no impostor, papa, I am very sure of that.”
Mr. D. arose from the table, evidently much annoyed. Myra’s heart beat quick. Why should she tremble, why should every nerve in her slight frame thrill so, if the stranger were no more to her than a hundred others had been? Why was it that the laugh died on her lip, and all her courage fled, when she saw the displeasure so strongly marked in her father’s face? Was the young girl awaking from her dream? did she begin to feel how truly, how ardently she loved? or was the rosy vail but half lifted from her heart? She cast a supplicating glance at her mother, and her look was answered by one of sweet and undisturbed affection. That feminine and lovely woman could sympathize far better with the sweet, wild feelings that broke so eloquently, that moment, through the troubled eyes of her child, than with the stern displeasure of her husband. She arose from the breakfast-table and glided from the room, making a sign for her daughter to follow.
“Stay,” said the master of the house, addressing Myra, as she was turning toward her own room. “I would ask a single question, and then let us have done with this impostor, for, doubtless, he is such.”
“No, father, no; I would pledge my life for his honor; he is no impostor,” exclaimed Myra, as her father led the way to a little study that opened from the breakfast-room.
“As you would have done for the gentlemanly old man with the Bible, I dare say,” was the half-humorous, half-ironical rejoinder. “But answer my question, Myra: has this young man ever presumed to lift his eyes to you as an equal? has he ever uttered a word that might lead you to suppose that he thinks of you save as a stranger?”
“Indeed, papa, he never has—far, far from it. When other young men have overwhelmed me with flatteries; when, as your heiress, homage of every kind has been lavished upon me, he alone has been silent. Always respectful, always kind, he has never, for one moment, taken the attitude often assumed by other young men who could not boast a tithe of his merit. He has seldom spoken to me of himself—never has the word love passed between us.”