As it was, her anxiety over Cinthia was soon dissipated by the receipt of a telegram from Mr. Dawn, announcing that he had found his daughter safe in Washington, and that they would go on a trip to New York. Several days later a short letter followed the telegram, saying they had concluded to take a run over to Europe for an indefinite stay. He believed that change of scene was the best way to wean Cinthia from her infatuation for Arthur Varian. No mention was made of the legacy that had so opportunely fallen to Cinthia, but Mr. Dawn inclosed a liberal check to his sister, and asked that she would use some of it in behalf of the woman he had brought home that night, stating that he had recognized in her a former servant of Cinthia’s mother. Mrs. Flint began to take considerable more interest in the invalid when she learned this interesting fact. She had always cherished a lively curiosity over Cinthia’s mother, and it had never been properly gratified, but the little knowledge she had made her thirsty for more. That she was beautiful, vain, and unprincipled, Everard Dawn had acknowledged; but he did not even possess a picture of her, although Mrs. Flint fancied he must have loved her well from the way he had exiled himself at her death. She was anxious for the sick woman’s recovery, for she fancied the woman could tell her more of Everard’s dead wife than her brother had ever chosen to divulge himself. So she was unremitting in her care, as were also Doctor Savoy and the trained nurse; but for several weeks the woman’s life hung on a thread, and it was evident that exposure of that wintery night had been preceded by keen privation and almost starvation, making her hold on life so frail that she had almost let it go. It was far into December before she became convalescent enough to impart her name and some curt information about herself. “My name is Rachel Dane, and I came from Florida in search of work,” she said, rather sullenly; adding: “I’m a capital sick-nurse, but I could get no more work of that kind, and I thought I’d hire out for a ladies’-maid, or even a cook, for I can do anything I have a mind to turn my hand to.” Old Doctor Savoy to whom she was talking, smiled benevolently, and beaming on Mrs. Flint, remarked: “I don’t think you’ll have to fare any further for a job as maid of all work when you get strong enough, for my old friend here certainly needs a good domestic, now that she isn’t as young as she once was.” Mrs. Flint had never thought of the subject in that way before, but when her old friend, Doctor Savoy, presented it so artfully to her mind, she consented to the plan, knowing that she would be very lonely in the quiet house, now that willful Cinthia’s bright presence was removed.