Wherever she moved, she was the cynosure of admiring eyes, and a score of hearts had been laid at her feet--some of them most true and manly; but she turned from them with indifference, saying to herself that her life was spoiled by Arthur’s falsity, and she could never love again. She called it Arthur’s falsity, always refusing to believe that there existed any better reason than a former feud between their parents for the breaking of their troth. She believed that Arthur was a coward, that he had too easily given her up; but for all that she had not ceased to love him, though she did not acknowledge this to her own heart. If you had asked her the question, she would have sworn to you that she hated and despised Arthur Varian and would not have forgiven him the slight he had put on her if he had implored her on bended knees, so strong is woman’s pride. Yet, so weak is woman’s heart that she shrined his image still in its deepest depths, and could not bid memory down--memory of the brief, blissful time of love when the world seemed to hold nothing for either save the other, when they had tried to thrust aside, with the passionate obstinacy of youth, every obstacle to their happiness. “If Arthur had been as brave as I was, less under the control of his mother, we might have been so happy!” she had said, regretfully, more than once to Madame Ray, who agreed with her views, and always answered: “You are right, dear. He was weak and cowardly, unworthy of such a golden heart as yours. I would forget him!” “Oh, I will forget him. I despise him now!” Cinthia answered out of her wounded pride. Yet, as the prow of their noble steamer cleaved the blue waves, and she stood on deck under the blue sky and burning sun of July, her thoughts went before to her native land and to her lost lover, so dearly loved, so strangely lost. She wondered where he was now, and if he was married yet, for Aunt Flint, in one of her letters, had not failed to mention that there was such a report in the town. She added that it would not be Mrs. Varian’s fault if her son did not find a wife, for she kept Idlewild full of visitors the year round, when she was at home, with pretty girls of all complexions, from brunette to blonde. Cinthia’s thoughts often wandered to Idlewild, wondering what was transpiring there, and trying to picture to herself the beauty of the gay young girls with whom Mrs. Varian surrounded her son, trying to win his love from Cinthia. It filled the girl’s heart with secret, jealous agony that brought shadows of pain into her large, soft eyes as she leaned against the rail and watched the dancing waves. “How grave you look, Miss Dawn, while every one else is rejoicing at the home-coming. One would think you had left your heart behind you on foreign shores!” gayly exclaimed a young man, approaching her and gazing at her with admiring eyes.