She was wondrously beautiful this morning, even in the plain dark gown that simply served as a foil to her fairness. Everard Dawn could not help from seeing it, and saying to himself: “What peerless beauty! No wonder Arthur Varian lost his head!” He felt like groaning aloud, his sudden home-coming had precipitated him into such a tragic plight, for the task that lay before him was most bitter. He could not help from seeing the pride and resentment in her eyes, and something moved him to say, apologetically: “I dare say you have been vexed with me for staying away so long, Cinthia; but I have been working for you, trying to lay aside a little pile, so that you could enjoy your young ladyhood. You shall have pretty gowns and pleasures henceforth. Are you not glad?” It cost him effort to say so much, but there was no gratitude in his daughter’s proud face, only a mutinous flash of the great dark eyes as she answered: “I shall not need your belated kindness now.” “What do you mean?” impatiently. “Haven’t you told him, Aunt Beck, about--about--Arthur?” blushing vividly. “Yes--yes, dear.” Cinthia nodded her head at him with a mixture of childish triumph and womanliness. “You see,” she said, proudly, “I am going to be married soon. I shall have a husband who will give me all I want--even,” bitterly, “the love I have missed all my life!” tears sparkling into her eyes under the curling lashes. He felt the keen reproach deeply, and exclaimed, gently and sadly: “Poor little Cinthia.” “Not poor now,” she answered, quickly. “It is _rich_ Cinthia now--rich in Arthur’s love and the certainty of a happy future.” She meant to be scathing, poor, neglected, wounded Cinthia, but she could never guess how the words cut into his heart and tortured him with secret agony--he who meant to lay her love and hopes in ruins, to blight all the joys of her life by the exercise of a father’s privilege of breaking her will. But no shadow crossed his face, no trouble was apparent in his manner as he laughed easily, and answered: “Nonsense! you are scarcely more than a child yet--too young to be dreaming of marriage. I shall send you to school to complete your education before you can begin to think of lovers.” “I will not go!” she said rebelliously, with startled eyes upon his inscrutable face. “Cinthy!” reproved her aunt. “I will _not_ go!” the girl repeated, defiantly. “I shall marry Arthur, as I promised, before Christmas!” She sprung from her seat and rushed to the window, drumming tempestuously upon the pane, her habit when greatly excited. Outside the prospect was dreary. The _débris_ of yesterday’s storm littered the ground, the limbs of some of the trees hung broken, the sun was hidden under clouds that hinted at snow. Mrs. Flint whispered to her brother, apprehensively: “I told you so. She has a rebellious will, and she thinks you have no authority over her now, because you stayed away so long.”