She peeped in at the girl and saw that she was wrapped in pleasant dreams, for the murmured name of Arthur passed her lips, and she smiled in joy beneath the gazer’s troubled eyes. “Poor little girl--poor little girl!” she murmured, as she withdrew, her heart heavy with sympathy for the sweet love-dream so soon to be blighted by the father’s stern edict of separation. “It is very, very, strange, the way Everard takes on about it. Why, he went wild just at the very name of Varian,” she said aloud to the large portrait of her long dead husband, Deacon Flint, good soul, that hung over her mantel. She had acquired a habit of talking absently to this portrait as if it were alive. She read her short chapter in the Bible, mumbled over her prayer, and crept shivering into bed. But slumber was far from her eyes. The events of the evening had unstrung her nerves, and she lay awake, dreading the dawn of the morrow that was to usher in such disappointment and sorrow to the sleeping girl now dreaming so happily of the lover who was never to be her husband. CHAPTER VI. REBELLION. Cinthia would have slept later than usual that morning but for her aunt’s hand gently shaking her as she said: “Get up, Cinthy. Breakfast is almost ready. Put on your Sunday gown, and try to look your best when you come down-stairs.” “Is--is--Arthur here--already?” cried the girl, a beautiful flash of joy illuminating her face. “Never mind about that; only come down as soon as you can, or the biscuit will be soggy,” returned the old lady, hurrying out in trepidation. The sight of the beautiful, happy face made her nervous. Cinthia hurried her toilet, not taking time to plait her hair, but letting the bright mass fall in careless waves over the brown cloth gown--her “Sunday best.” “How ugly it is!” she cried, with an envious glance at Mrs. Varian’s finery spread over a chair; then she sped down-stairs, wondering happily if Arthur had indeed arrived so soon to ask her aunt’s consent. But a strange man, tall, grave, brown-bearded, stood with his back to the fire, scanning her with moody blue eyes as she fluttered in, and Aunt Beck said in nervous tones: “Your _father_, Cinthy.” “Oh!” she faltered, in more surprise than joy, and paused, irresolute. “What a pretty girl you have grown, my dear!” said Everard Dawn, coming forward and giving her a careless kiss. Then he took her hand and seated her at the table, saying laughingly that her aunt had been fretting about the biscuits. No emotion had been shown on either side. The man seemed indifferent, with an under-current of repressed agitation; the girl was secretly wounded and indignant. Her own father! yet he had never shown her a sign of real love. Between this pair her poor heart had been starved for tenderness. A little triumphant thought thrilled her through and through: “What do I care for his coming or going now? I shall soon be happy with my darling!”