“Love! It began with a glance, Grew with the growing flowers, Smiled in a dreamful trance, Recked not the passage of hours. “Grief! It began with a word, Grew with the winds that raved, A prayer for pardon unheard, Pardon in turn uncraved. The bridge so easy to sever, The stream so swift to be free, Till the brook became a river, And the river became a sea. “Life! It began with a sigh, Grew with the leaves that are dead, Its pleasures with wings to fly, Its sorrows with wings of lead.” Could one lift the impenetrable veil of mystery that hides the future from our curious eyes, what secrets would often be revealed, what shadows would fall upon hearts now light and thoughtless--shadows of grief, of horror, and despair! “It is better not to know,” agree both the poets and sages. Beautiful Cinthia Dawn did not think of that as she drummed upon the window-pane that rainy autumn day, exclaiming rebelliously: “I wish something would happen to break up the dreadful monotony of my life.” Widow Flint, who was her aunt and guardian, and as crabbed and crusty as her name, looked at her with dismay, and retorted: “Some people don’t know when they’re well off. You have enough to eat, to drink, and to wear, and a good home. What more do you want?” The girl looked at the dingy sitting-room, her own shabby gray gown, then out at the dismal landscape, blurred by the rain and low-hanging clouds, with something like frank contempt, and answered, recklessly: “I want pretty clothes and jewels, beautiful surroundings, gay times, and lovers, such as other girls have instead of this humdrum, poky existence--so there!” “Humph!” It was all Mrs. Flint said aloud, but to herself she added: “Good land! I do wish my brother would come home from his eternal wanderings and take charge of his rattled-brained daughter. She’s too pretty and restless, and I don’t see how I’m going to hold her down much longer.” Cinthia Dawn was seventeen now, and ever since she had been given into her aunt’s sole keeping at five years old, the strait-laced soul, who was as prim and particular as an old maid, had been engaged in the difficult task of “holding down” her spirited young niece. She had even erred on the side of prudence, so great was her anxiety to bring her up in the way she should go. When the lovely child first came her aunt said frankly to all: “I don’t want anybody ever to tell Cinthy that she is pretty.” “She can find it out for herself by just looking in the glass,” objected one of her cronies. “I’ll tend to that,” said Mrs. Flint, crustily, and she furnished her rooms with cracked and distorted mirrors, whose blurred surfaces gave back indeed no fair reflection of the child’s beauty.