But, somehow, she did not shrink from the task for a change had come over her feelings toward Cinthia, and she experienced a sort of fierce pleasure in the task now before her. In a way, it would be taking revenge on a woman who had wronged Mrs. Varian, and who was dead now--dead, but unforgiven in her lonely grave. For this girl, her daughter, how could Mrs. Varian cherish any love? Perhaps something like pity touched her heart as the large, soft dark eyes turned upon her so wistfully, but she fought down the sympathy, saying to herself: “Her mother had no mercy on me--none! And the same blood runs in Cinthia’s veins. She could not be trusted to bring her husband anything but ill.” She threw back her magnificent head with a haughty motion, and said, curtly: “Sit down, Cinthia, for what I am about to tell you may possibly ruffle your nerves.” Cinthia obeyed with surprising meekness for one so proud; but the imperious woman before her had the habit of command, and every one seemed to obey. She, too, took a chair, as if perhaps her own nerves were not quite steady. Then she said: “Cinthia, you have done wrong in disobeying your father’s commands, when he told you there were reasons why you should not marry my son.” Cinthia bowed without answering. She had no defense to make, only the mute protest of her wistful eyes. “I am here to tell you,” continued Mrs. Varian, “that on my side there exist as grave reasons as your father’s for protesting against your marrying Arthur.” The blood rose in the girl’s face, mounted to her fair brow, and receded, leaving her pale as death, her eyes beginning to flash with pride. She essayed to speak, and faltered: “Arthur told me--that you--were pleased--with our engagement. I--I--did not think it mattered much--disobeying a cold, unloving father who has neglected me all my life. If he had been fond of me, kind to me, I would have acted differently.” A strange gleam shot into the brilliant eyes of Mrs. Varian, almost as if it pleased her to know that Everard Dawn had been cold and cruel to his only daughter. Then she looked down and played with the diamonds that flashed on her white hands, as she continued, gravely: “Arthur and I have talked matters over together--there are things we would rather not confide to you, best for you not to hear--and we have decided that your father is right. You can never be Arthur’s wife.” Perhaps Cinthia had expected something like this, but it struck her with the force of a great shock. She began to tremble like a leaf in a gale, crying out: “You do not mean that he--Arthur--rejects me--after bringing me away from my father’s home to marry me--jilts me at the very altar!” It was piteous, that heartcry wrung from the profoundest depths of feeling, and for a moment Mrs. Varian was silent, sympathetic. Then she looked down again at her rings, and answered: