Beadle's Dime Novels No. 3: Myra, the Child of Adoption — page 72: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

70 MYRA, THE CHILD OF ADOPTION. “But I—I told him he could have fifty just as well,” said Myra, joining in her father’s laugh ; “ who could suspect him with his gentle manners—” ‘ “ And little Bible ?” interrupted Mr. D. “ And gray hairs? Indeed, papa, it was worth the money to be cheated so gracefully. You have no idea with what an air the man took his leaye—the tears absolutely stood in his eyes.” “The fellow was a fool not to take your fifty dollars, Myra, that is all I have to say about him—so now on with your list. What other interesting stranger haye you entertained in my absence ?” Myra hesitated, her eyes drooped for an instant, and the damask of her cheek deepened to crimson. For the first time in her life she felt embarrassed in the presence of her father, What if papa should pronounce Aém an impostor also? she thought; and her heart was in a glow at the very idea. She felt that the eyes of her father were fixed on her inquiringly, and this deepened her confusion. “ 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 am excursion.” “Indeed; and who is he?” inquired Mr. D. in a graye tone, and casting a glance at his wife that had a shade of displeas- ure 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 ta 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 Conmmicloooks.corn