He listened with his head on his arm but the wind had lulled for the moment, and the strangely human shriek he had heard began to affect him very unpleasantly. “Was it really the wind?” he began to ask himself, wondering if it might not be an hysterical shriek of his rebellious daughter. “Poor little Cinthia, God help her!” he uttered, sadly, and rising from his bed, began to dress hurriedly. “I will go and see if there is anything wrong,” he muttered. He had been very angry when he returned at dusk from his strange interview with the scornful Mrs. Varian, and heard from his worried sister about the flowers and candy she had taken up to Cinthia. “How is my little girl now?” he asked, anxiously, and started when she replied: “She is in a dreadful temper, and when I took up the flowers and candy you sent her, she ordered me to throw them away.” “Did you do it?” “No; I told her not to be a little fool, put them down on the table, and came away.” “Rebecca, I fear you have made a grave mistake. I did not send Cinthia anything. I intended to purchase a gift for her, but--I was--so troubled--I quite forgot it.” Mrs. Flint studied a moment, then frankly admitted that the boy who brought the flowers had not said Mr. Dawn sent them, in fact, had merely said, “For Miss Cinthia,” and she had jumped at the conclusion that they came from her brother. “They must have come from Arthur Varian. I take this very ill of him after what I said to him this morning,” angrily. “Are you sure,” he continued, “that no letter accompanied the flowers?” “I did not see any,” the old lady replied, uneasily. Everard Dawn was more versed in the ways of romantic lovers than his prosaic sister, so he said, with a troubled air: “You may be sure that a sentimental note accompanied the gift, and they may possibly have planned an elopement this very night. I desire that you will lock her door on the outside without her knowledge when you retire to-night.” “Very well,” she replied, and obeyed him to the letter. Recalling all this, the thought came to him that perhaps Cinthia, finding her door locked, was indulging herself in a fit of hysterics. “God help us all,” he sighed, as he finished dressing; and, taking his night-lamp, stole upstairs to listen outside her door. But all was still as death at first, then the wind rose again, and he heard strange noises within the room. It was, in fact, the wind rushing through the window and banging things about in confusion. He went and tapped on Mrs. Flint’s door, and she soon confronted him in her cap and gown, exclaiming: “I thought I heard creaking steps in the hall. What is the matter? Are you ill, Everard?” “No; but I fancied I heard strange noises from Cinthia’s room. Did you notice anything?”