And the actress had answered as ardently: “And I you, my dear. I wish you were my daughter.” The words put a new thought in Cinthia’s head. Why couldn’t clear, beautiful Madame Ray become her mamma? What was to hinder her father falling in love with the charming woman, and making her Mrs. Dawn, and thereby her step-mamma? Cinthia felt sure that she could love her as dearly as her own mamma--much more dearly, in fact, than she did her father. For, though she saw a hundred admirable things about him, and felt rather proud of him than otherwise, Cinthia had never tried to overcome her resentment of the past for those years of neglect, and the cruel parting from her lover. She believed that Mr. Dawn and Mrs. Varian had acted a wicked part in preventing her marriage, because of some old family feud that would have been healed by her union with Arthur. So she still preserved toward her father a certain amount of reserve, like a thin crust of ice, and he, on his part, although admiring her grace and beauty, and sedulously careful and attentive to all her whims, still brooded over secret sorrows that made him half oblivious to the present with the best of his heart buried in the dead past. To Cinthia there came the sudden thought that to make a match between this strange father of hers and lovely Madame Ray might be conducive to the happiness of all three. Of herself she was sure that life would be far brighter with this fair woman for a companion than spent alone with Everard Dawn, who would always represent to her the blighting of the fairest love-dream maiden ever cherished. She became the most designing little match-maker in the world, but she was so transparent that she could not hide her plans from the objects of her care. They detected her schemes with secret amusement, and pretended unconsciousness, while inwardly rather amused at the little by-play. That each admired the other was natural, but it was not the admiration that deepens into love. Both had been deeply bereaved in a way that left no room for the budding of a second passion. As for Cinthia, those years abroad had been like the bursting of a promising bud into a perfect flower. In a few months she would be twenty years old, and the promise of seventeen was more than fulfilled. Her slight figure was somewhat taller and more rounded in its gracious contour, and her lovely face and large, soft, dark eyes had gained a depth of expression--spirit blended with pathos--almost irresistible. The gold of her luxurious, curling hair had a deeper, richer sheen as it rippled in a loose knot beneath the brim of her becoming little hat, a Parisian affair that matched her stylish traveling gown, for Cinthia had developed a perfect taste in dress that was very gratifying to her father’s pride.