“Cinthia”--he breathed hollowly, and she came and bent over him, impulsively slipping her little hand into his as he went on--“Cinthia, do not think me false or fickle, or turned against you by the arbitrary wishes of our parents. I never loved you better than in this hour when I must part from you forever. Cinthia, it is the most fortunate thing in the world that my mother chanced on us in time to prevent our mad marriage. A great gulf is fixed between us that neither our love nor our hopes can ever cross. My mother has telegraphed for your father to come and take you home, and we must bid each other an eternal farewell.” Cinthia felt herself sinking, falling; but an arm slipped round her waist, and Mrs. Varian, with a sigh, pillowed the unconscious head against her breast. CHAPTER XVI. “OH, WHAT A TIME!” Mrs. Flint was at her wits’ end to know what to do for the strange woman whom her brother had mistakenly brought home as his daughter. The upshot was that she simply did nothing at all but to sit still and stare, and wonder where the woman came from, how Everard came to bring her home, and what had become of Cinthia. Presently she heard steps and voices, and rushed to the door, glad that her vigil with the seemingly dead woman was ended. Everard Dawn, alarmed at the duration of Cinthia’s swoon, had brought a physician with him, and exclaimed as soon as he saw his sister: “Has Cinthia recovered yet?” “You can see for yourself,” she answered, in a dazed way, as she ushered them into the room. The two men, almost blinded by the brightness of the room, after the outer storm and darkness, advanced to the sofa and bent over the patient in keen anxiety, while Mrs. Flint blurted out, nervously: “Everard; what is the matter? Why did you bring that strange woman here instead of Cinthia?” At the same moment the old doctor added: “It is not little Cinthia but a stranger.” Everard Dawn bent down with an air of incredulity that quickly changed as he saw what a terrible mistake he had made. The cry that rose from his tortured heart, the baffled purpose, the agony, the pain, rang forever in the ears of the two who heard it. Then exhausted nature gave way. He fell writhing to the floor in convulsions. Then Mrs. Flint and the doctor had their hands full with the two patients. They ignored the strange woman until Mr. Dawn had been quieted and removed to his bed, where the doctor kept him quiescent by the use of opiates while he turned his attention to his other charge. “Who is she? Where did she come from? I’ve never seen her face around here,” he said curiously to Mrs. Flint, who replied by confiding in him all that she knew, which, of course, threw no light upon the mystery; so without more ado they set to work to restore the poor creature to life. It was a serious undertaking, and lasted until the gray dawn of another dreary day glimmered in through the windows of the sitting-room.