She carried out her programme further by dressing the child in the plainest, commonest clothing, and plaiting all her wealth of golden curls in a single tail down her back, though she could not prevent it even then from breaking out on her brow and neck in enchanting little ringlets that a ballroom belle might have envied. To her dearest crony Mrs. Flint excused her course by saying, confidentially: “Cinthy’s mother, who is dead now, was the vainest and prettiest creature on earth, and she did wicked work with her beauty. I don’t want to say aught against her now that she is dead; but Cinthy must have a different raising, that’s all. My brother said so when he put her in my charge. ‘Bring her up good and simple in your old-fashion way, Rebecca,’ was what he said.” “That’s right. ‘Favor is deceitful and beauty is vain, but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.’ That’s Cinthy’s Bible verse, and I hope she’ll live up to it,” returned the good crony, Deacon Rood’s wife. So Cinthia Dawn was reared simply and plainly almost to severity. She received her education at the public school, and at home helped her aunt with the house-work. Surreptitiously she read poetry and novels. Such a simple, quiet life--just like thousands and thousands of others--but Cinthia was outgrowing it now. She was seventeen--the most romantic age in the world--and she chafed at the dreariness of her life. School-days were ended now, and her merry mates had their new gowns, their dances, and their lovers. There were none of these for Cinthia Dawn. Mrs. Flint said her niece was nothing but a child yet, so she was not permitted to attend parties, and she vowed she had no money to spend on finery. As for lovers, if she had any, the bravest would not have dared present himself at Mrs. Flint’s door. She would have said to him as to the veriest tramp: “Be off!” It was just the life to drive a pretty, spirited girl frantic with impatience of the present, and longings for something better than she had known--the longing that found impatient expression that afternoon when she watched the dead leaves flying in sodden drifts beneath the chill November rain. After Mrs. Flint’s curt rejoinder to her complaints she remained silent several minutes drumming impatiently on the pane, then burst out: “Oh, Aunt Beck, don’t you want me to run down to the post-office for your _Christian Advocate_?” “In all this storm?” “Oh, I won’t mind it a bit! I’m in a mood for fighting the elements!” “Then take your umbrella and overshoes, and hurry back.” “Yes, aunt.” Glad to escape from the monotony of the little brown house, she hurried out into the teeth of the storm, and made her way through the village streets to the little post-office. The rain blew in her face, and the wind crimsoned her cheeks and made her dark eyes flash like stars. Cinthia did not care. In her splendor of youth and health she found it exhilarating.