To her surprise, she found him up and dressed, putting the finishing touches to his toilet. The tears rushed to her eyes at the sight of his haggard, miserable face. “Rebecca, I was fooled last night. Arthur Varian gave me that tramp he had picked up in the road for my own child, and I let him deceive me. But I shall go on their tracks at once,” he said weakly. For answer she held out the telegram. He snatched it with a cry of anguish, and quickly mastered the contents. His face changed marvelously, and he exclaimed hoarsely: “Thank God!” and tossed her the telegram. She read: “Cinthia is here safe with me, and not married. Please come at once and take her home. “MRS. VARIAN.” The address was carefully given, and the man’s face, from anger and distress, changed to keenest joy. “This is better than I could have hoped,” he cried. “Can you give me some breakfast at once, Rebecca, for I must leave for Washington on the earliest train.” CHAPTER XVII. A DEADLY FEUD. When Cinthia recovered her senses she found herself lying on her bed and the air was heavy with the scent of eau-de-Cologne, with which Mrs. Varian was gently bathing her face and hands. “Do you feel better now?” the lady gently inquired, and Cinthia mechanically answered: “Oh, yes.” In fact her head was aching wretchedly, and her heart was heavy as lead, but she would seek no sympathy from Arthur Varian’s mother, who had turned against her so cruelly. “I am glad to hear it. Perhaps you will feel like taking breakfast now,” touching the bell. “Oh, no, no, no!” cried Cinthia; feeling as if she could never swallow a morsel of food again. “But yes,” returned Mrs. Varian, smiling, as she rose as if to go. Cinthia raised her heavy head and held out a deprecatory hand. “You are going,” she said, “and it is not likely that we shall ever meet again. Wait till I ask you one question. Why is it that you hate me?” “I do not hate you, child.” “Why deny it, when I have read it in your eyes?” cried the girl, accusingly. Mrs. Varian’s face worked with emotion, and she started forward as if she would have embraced the girl, then suddenly drew back, saying huskily: “Cinthia, you are mistaken. I--I--do not hate--_you! It was--your mother!_” “My mother!” the girl gasped, in bewilderment, gazing in wonder at the beautiful and agitated face of the lady. Mrs. Varian continued, hoarsely: “My feelings toward you are complex, Cinthia. For your own sake, I could love you--you are beautiful and winning, but between your parents and me there has been a deadly feud--they both wronged me! I have hated them both for years and years, and that hatred comes between you and me, child, like an impassable gulf. That first night I saw you I did not guess at your parentage, hence my attraction to you. When I learned the truth upon the return of your father, my feelings changed. I do not deny it. I could not contemplate with any calmness the thought of a marriage between you and Arthur.