So he made haste to reach home, and his thoughts on the way were most sad and bitter, for in this man’s past was a tragedy of sorrow that might have driven a weaker man to cut loose the bonds of unbearable life with his own hands and hurl himself recklessly into the great unknown future beyond. With his return to his sister’s house, everything had rushed back upon him like the swell of some great river, and seared wounds had been opened afresh, bleeding in secret beneath his outward calmness. However handsome and prosperous he appeared to the outward eye, no man could have envied Everard Dawn, having looked once into his tortured heart and seen its secrets laid bare. Mrs. Flint was watching and listening for him, and as soon as the sleigh stopped, she seized a lantern, and bundling herself in a shawl, rushed out to the gate. Springing out and fastening the lines to a post, he said, triumphantly: “I overtook them, Rebecca, and Cinthia fainted with fear. I brought her back in that condition, thus escaping a scene in the sleigh. I will carry her in, and you can revive her at your leisure, while I return the sleigh to the stable.” He lifted out the form, carefully shrouded in a large, warm robe, and, almost staggering under the burden, followed the lead of his sister into the sitting-room, depositing it on the long sofa, panting: “Cinthia looked so slender, I did not suppose she was so heavy. My arms fairly ache. Now do you revive her, Rebecca, and soothe the poor girl as tenderly as you can until I return presently.” “Well, I declare, I never saw such an unfeeling father in my life! There he rushes off again, without so much as glancing at her face to see if she is dead or alive. He doesn’t seem to bear one bit of love for the poor, neglected girl, and I wish in my heart she had got away with Arthur Varian and married him, that I do!” ejaculated the old lady, as she heard her brother drive away, her usually cold heart melting with sympathy for the hapless girl over whom she bent, drawing aside the folds of the heavy robe from her face, adding, sharply: “And a pretty how-d’ye-do there’ll be when she revives and finds herself parted from her lover. Not that I believe he can _keep_ them apart, for there’s an old saying that true love always finds a way, and----Oh, my goodness gracious, _what in the world_----!” With that dismayed exclamation, the Widow Flint dropped the corner of the robe, and recoiled as if she had encountered a nest of serpents. It was not quite so bad as that, but she certainly had good reason for her surprise and dismay. For instead of her beautiful niece, slender, golden-haired Cinthia, there lay a large woman of middle age, shabbily attired, with a pinched face, whose cadaverous hue was outlined by long, straggling locks of jet-black hair.