And all Mrs. Flint’s pious arguments made no change in her mood. She only answered, flatly: “I beg that you will not waste arguments on me, ma’am. I’ve heard all that before, and it don’t alter my opinion at all.” Mrs. Flint found out that the desire of the woman’s heart was to have a snug little fortune of her own, and she would never have a good opinion of the Lord until her desire was gratified. One day, while she was looking out of the front window, she saw Arthur Varian going past in a sleigh with his mother, the silver bells ringing out gayly as they sped over the snow, while their rich fur robes and seal-skin garments gave evidence of their wealth and position. “Who are those grand, rich people?” she asked, enviously. Mrs. Flint told her, and added with pardonable pride, that the young man had been a suitor for Cinthia’s hand, but her father had separated the lovers. “He was very foolish, unless he had some good reason,” exclaimed Rachel Dane. “He did not have any good reason that I could find out,” returned Mrs. Flint; adding, regretfully: “It would have been a splendid match for Cinthia. I have heard that Arthur’s grandfather, a Southern planter, left him a million dollars in his own right.” “I wish I knew how to get some of it from him!” murmured Rachel Dane, gazing with covetous eyes after the vanishing sleigh with its fortunate occupants. And no thought crossed her mind that she was the possessor of a secret that the rich Arthur Varian would have sacrificed his whole great fortune to know. CHAPTER XXII. WHEN YEARS HAD FLED. “I thought of thee--I thought of thee, On ocean many a weary night, When heaved the long and sullen sea, With only waves and stars in sight. We stole along the isles of balm, We furled before the coming gale, We slept amid the breathless calm, We flew before the straining sail; But thou wert lost for years to me, And day and night I thought of thee.” One golden July day almost three years later than the events of our last chapter, a little group of three persons stood on the deck of a steamer homeward-bound, plowing her way through the blue waves toward the harbor of New York. They were Everard Dawn, his daughter, and her friend, Madame Ray, the latter having joined them abroad three months ago, after a long correspondence, dating from the time of their meeting in Washington on the occasion of the frustrated elopement. The actress had retired from the stage at last with a fair competency, declaring that she was weary of the exciting life, and desired to spend the rest of her days in quiet, away from the glare of the foot-lights. At Cinthia’s wish, she had gone abroad in the spring, traveling with her young friend for several months, while every day of their companionship added to the strength of the bond of affection between their responsive hearts. “I love you more than any one else in the world,” Cinthia had said to her ardently more than once.