But she was not naturally nervous, so after a moment’s startled indecision, she flew to the door and demanded, through the key-hole, to know who was there. “It is Cinthia, aunt,” returned a sweet, mirthful voice. With a sigh of relief the old lady unlocked the door, and there stepped into the narrow hall a vision that took her breath away. Was it Cinthia Dawn or a fairy princess, this beautiful creature in the crimson silk and misty lace, the furred white opera-cloak falling from her shoulders, the rippling lengths of sunny hair enveloping her like a halo, the dark eyes beaming with “that light that never was on sea or land,” but only in the glance of the happy and the loving? “Cinthia Dawn!” she began, in a dazed voice; but just then she became aware that a tall and handsome young man, hat in hand, was standing on the threshold. She knew who he was. Her pastor had introduced her last Sunday, at church, to the master of Idlewild. “Good-evening, Mrs. Flint,” he began, beamingly. “I have brought Cinthia home safe to you. My mother took care of her during the storm.” He paused, faintly hoping that she would ask him to enter, it was so early yet. But he did not yet know Mrs. Flint, much as he had heard of her eccentricities. She simply bridled, and returned, in her stiffest manner: “I’m sure we are _very_ much obliged to your mother, and you, too. Good-evening.” Thus curtly dismissed, the young man shot a tender glance at his sweetheart, and bowed himself out into the night again, the lady slamming the door behind him before he was fairly down the steps. “Oh, Aunt Beck! how could you be so rude after all their kindness to me? And he saved my life, too. Didn’t you see his arm in a sling?” indignantly. “I don’t know as I noticed it. I was so flustrated seeing you bringing a beau home, and you nothing but a child yet!” snapped the old lady. “_Child!_” echoed Cinthia, scornfully, as she held her chilly fingers to the blaze and the ruddy light played over her beautiful garments. “But what are you doing with the silk gown, and that grand white cloak, all brocade and ermine? I don’t understand!” cried the old lady, suspiciously. Cinthia laughed out gayly, happily, her eyes shining, her voice as sweet as silver bells. “Why, I was caught in the rain and almost drowned, Aunt Beck, and my wretched old duds were nothing but mud and water, so Mrs. Varian lent me these things to come home in. Aren’t they becoming? Don’t I look pretty?” setting her graceful head one side, like a bird. “Humph! ‘Pretty is as pretty does,’” grunted her aunt, though she could not keep her eyes off the charming creature as she flung herself back in an easy-chair and continued, gayly: “If you are not sleepy, Aunt Beck, I’ll tell you all about it.” “I guess I can keep my eyes open!” ungraciously, though she was dying of curiosity.