The old lady, moved in spite of herself, and secretly proud of Cinthia’s conquest, actually kissed the rosy cheek, saying, merrily: “Good-night--Mrs. Varian that is to be.” Cinthia’s heart leaped with joy and pride, for she took this concession to mean approbation of her choice. With the chorus of a love song Arthur had sung that evening on her happy lips, she went upstairs to her pretty bed-room, and was soon fast asleep and dreaming sweetly of her splendid lover. But as for Mrs. Flint, she sat down again by the fire, in a sort of dazed condition, to think it all over. Little Cinthia engaged to be married! Why, it was like some strange dream! But the more she thought it over, the better pleased she was, for Cinthia’s future had been a burden to her mind, and this would be such a relief, marrying her off to such a good catch as Arthur Varian. Why, the little girl had done as well for herself as the most anxious father could desire, and she decided to give her consent to the match to-morrow without the formality of asking his advice. Just as she came to this conclusion, she was startled again by another rat-a-tat upon the door. “Good gracious! Who can it be knocking there at midnight almost? Some lunatic, surely! Or maybe Cinthia’s beau come back to ask for her to-night, too impatient to wait for morning!” she soliloquized, as she sallied out into the hall, with the demand: “Who’s there?” To her utter consternation and amazement, a manly voice replied, impatiently: “Your long-lost brother, Rebecca. Open the door. This wind is very cutting!” Unlocking the door, a traveler stepped into the hall--a tall, brown-bearded man of perhaps forty-five, blue-eyed, and rarely handsome. “Welcome, Everard!” she cried, and put her arm around his neck and kissed him with unwonted affection. He had been her baby half-brother when she was married, the pet and pride of the family. “Oh, I have such news for you! This return is very timely!” she exclaimed, when they were seated again by the fireside. Thereupon she poured out the exciting story of his daughter’s engagement, dilating with unusual volubility on the eligibility of the suitor. “I suppose I shall have to consent,” he said, carelessly; then: “Oh, by the way, what is the young man’s name?” “Arthur Varian.” The man sprung to his feet as if she had thrust a knife into his heart. “Arthur Varian!” he repeated, trembling like a leaf in a storm, his face growing deathly white under the bronze of travel. “Why, Everard, what is the matter? Do you know him? Is there anything wrong about him?” “Yes, no--that is, I must see him first! Oh, Rebecca, this is a terrible thing! How fortunate that I came in time to nip this in the bud, for Arthur Varian can never marry my daughter.” “You will break her heart.” He dropped back into his seat, groaning: “I can not help it, miserable man that I am; for Cinthia Dawn had better be dead than the bride of Arthur Varian!” CHAPTER V. RETROSPECTION.