“Oh, he will not think that!” cried Myra, extending her hand, for her guest was about to take his leave. “He will never think any thing that is not noble and good of you, I am sure.”
“To-morrow, then—to-morrow I will call for the letters.”
“Yes, to-morrow,” replied Myra; and while a servant opened the door for her guest, she entered her father’s study.
Mr. D. was seated by his escritoir, reading some papers. He looked up as Myra entered, and smiled kindly upon her.
“What visitor have you had?” he inquired, folding up the paper in his hand. “Did I not hear some one go out a moment since?”
“Yes, sir; it was Mr. Whitney.”
Mr. D. tossed the paper he held upon the escritoir, and his brow contracted.
“Mr. Whitney again! Have I not told you, Myra, that no man of whose character I am not well informed, shall visit my house? How can you thus receive a person of whom you know nothing?”
“But, papa, I do know all about him, now, and so may you; only read these letters, and you will find that his family is as good as ours; his character irreproachable; his position every thing that can warrant the acquaintance he has sought.”
Mr. D. took the letters very coldly, and without another word proceeded to read them. Myra watched his countenance with a palpitating heart. The frown remained immovable on his forehead, and his mouth relaxed nothing of its stern expression. Coldly and deliberately he read the letters through; laid them down one by one, and then placing his hand upon the parcel, turned to his daughter.