Taking Cinthia’s hand, and caressing it softly in both her own, she added: “When I was young, like you, I had a great sorrow that sent my thoughts wandering, like yours, in search of a sensation in which to drown memory and grief. I turned to the stage, and after a period of drudgery and patience most painful to remember, earned a measure of success; so I am in a position to know what I am talking about, and to advise you against the course that I myself adopted. Not for worlds, my dear, would I have you go on the stage. No, no; it is a feverish life in the glare of the foot-lights. When I am rich enough to live without my work, I shall immediately retire to a private life.” But she saw that her words had not convinced Cinthia. The feverish fascination was still in her mind, the longing to escape from the painful present into something new and strange. But she persevered: “If you will listen to me, dear child, you will yield to your father’s wish to place you in school for two years. Believe me, the course of study will be far less hard than the training for the stage. Suppose you come with me now to our rehearsal, and remain for our _matinée_ performance? It will give you a glimpse of theatrical life behind the scenes that may perhaps turn your mind from this fascination.” “I will be glad to go with you,” answered Cinthia, eager for escape from the wretched present, and with strange reluctance to part from the charming actress. “We will go at once, then,” said Madame Ray, rising, and adding: “Perhaps you should ask Mrs. Varian’s leave?” “I shall do nothing of the kind,” Cinthia answered, rebelliously. “I have told her I wished to be alone, and she will not even know I am gone.” “But your father might arrive.” “He can not do so until very late, and I will probably be back when he comes,” Cinthia answered, but wishing in her heart that she were going this moment so far out of her old life that she need never encounter her father again--the stern, unloving father for whom she did not pretend an affection. CHAPTER XIX. A TRAGIC PAST. The actress did not urge her any further. Taking her hand as fondly as if she had been her own daughter, she led her from the room, down to her waiting carriage. At dusk that evening she had not returned, and when Everard Dawn went to seek her, in company with Mrs. Varian, they found the room untenanted. Mr. Dawn had come out of Arthur’s room with a pale, agitated face, and a look about the eyes that in a woman would have betokened recent tears. It had, in fact, been a most emotional interview, and one from which he was glad to escape. But the softness of his expression gave place to pride and coldness when he saw Mrs. Varian waiting for him, and he said, with a haughtiness that equaled her own: “Will you have the kindness to conduct me to Cinthia?”