Arthur Varian and his mother were the closest and dearest friends, and since his elopement, that had ended so unhappily, he had never kept a secret from her, believing that she was his best adviser.

So he had written to her frankly of all that had happened since he came to Florida.

He knew how sorry she would be that he had chanced upon Cinthia Dawn again, but he knew also that the sorrow would be offset by the knowledge that the young girl had overcome her unhappy love, and would in all probability be won by Frederick Foster.

He wrote of their pledge of friendship, their frequent meetings, her apparent indifference to himself, and her preference for Fred’s society.

Although the proud mother was pleased to know all these things, yet she railed in secret at Cinthia’s indifference.

“Fickle and unstable, like her father! Who could expect anything else of such a parentage?” she thought, bitterly, the somber dark eyes flashing with passion.

On this dreary December day, at Idlewild, she was shut into her luxurious boudoir, away from the rain and sleet of a most inclement day, cradled in warmth and luxury, the air sweet with flowers, and melodious with the songs of a large cage of canaries. A morning-robe of purple brocade, bordered with rich fur, wrapped the queenly form from the slightest breath of cold.

But with all her luxury and grandeur she was not happy, this proud woman, who turned her eyes from the beautiful room to gaze through the richly curtained windows at the dreary day, as perhaps more in consonance with her gray mood.

Certainly there was much in the past to darken her life with an ineffaceable shadow, and nothing in the future to throw any light on the present.

Once her life had been radiantly happy in the sunlight of wedded love, but a terrible trial had come upon her which ended in divorce and a desolated home.

The passionate pride of a strong nature had helped her to bear it before the eyes of the world. What she suffered in secret only Heaven knew.

In her pride she would have perished rather than unmask her secret suffering.

She tapped with restless fingers on the windowpane, muttering:

“What a dismal, dreary day! I wish I had gone to Florida with Arthur and Fred. There all is sunshine and beauty, while here in Virginia the rain drips down the pane like tears, the winds howl like a banshee, and the leafless vines tap against the walls like ghostly fingers. I hate it all, I hate my life that is gray and cold like the day.”

A sudden thought came to her like an inspiration:

“I will join Arthur at Weir Lake. True, that girl is there; but what of that? Her father is in California, they say, so he will not be there to trouble my peace. Why should he trouble it anyway? He is nothing to me, less than nothing. I hate him. I suppose that woman who was with them abroad, that beautiful, blue-eyed actress, means to marry him in the end. That is why she clings so close to the daughter. Time was when he cared nothing for these vivacious blondes, and adored dark eyes as if he saw heaven reflected in them. That is all past now. He knows the devil that lurks in a woman wronged. Yes—yes, I will join Arthur. I ought to see about the rebuilding of the old home myself.”

She strained her eyes through the murky rain toward the gate at a man who was striding along under an umbrella with a free, swinging gait too fatally familiar to her memory.

She pressed her hand to her throbbing heart.

“It is he! He has come back to see that old woman, his sister! How the old feelings stir in me at sight of him again. I wonder if—if—there was the least truth in his words that I had wronged him. His anger was most bitter and unforgiving. Yes—yes, I will leave here to-morrow. I can not breathe the same air with him!”

It was indeed Everard Dawn passing the gates of Idlewild without a glance at the windows where those anguished dark eyes watched him so eagerly between the blur of rain and mist.

He was coming, as before, in storm and gloom, to his sister’s home. An impulse of tenderness had moved him to turn aside on his way to his daughter, to visit the lonely old woman.

“It is well you came, for she is ill, and a week ago I hardly thought she would live till your return,” grumbled Rachel Dane, as she admitted him into the narrow hall.

“You should have telegraphed me,” he answered.

“She would not allow it. She said no one cared whether an old woman like her lived or died.”

“She is mistaken. I have neglected her in my selfishness, but I love her dearly,” he said, huskily, adding: “And as for you, Rachel Dane, the sight of you stirs up unpleasant memories, but I hope I see you well?”

“Well and hearty, sir, thanks to you for saving my life that night, and to your sister for giving me a home afterward. But I have tried to repay it by faithful service,” she added, as she ushered him into the lonely sitting-room, and stirred the fire into a brighter blaze.

“I thank you for that. She must have had a lonely life since I took my daughter away,” he replied throwing himself in a chair, and stretching his feet to the grateful warmth.

“My daughter! My daughter!” thought Rachel Dane, grimly. “How he would hate me if he knew the truth! And I should never dare to tell him! No, no; I don’t care to be bundled out-of-doors in my old age, when I have wound myself so closely around old Mrs. Flint that she is likely to leave me her property when she dies.”

She bustled about, watching him narrowly, thinking what a handsome man he was still, in spite of his probable fifty years.

Then she inquired if he would not have luncheon before he went up to the sick-room.

“No, I had a substantial breakfast on the train, and would like to see my sister as soon as possible,” he replied.

“Oh, then you may come upstairs at once. The sight of you will be good for her old eyes.”

He followed her up to the sick-room, that Rachel Dane had made as cheerful and bright as possible, and there lay poor Mrs. Flint among her pillows, wan and aged in the three years that had elapsed since last they met, but with a light of joy in her dim eyes as they rested again on his face.

“My dear sister!”

And he stooped and kissed her most affectionately.

“How long you have been away—you and Cinthy!—and I have missed her so, dear girl, though maybe I wasn’t none too good to her when she was here, but I thought she ought to be brought up strict,” she murmured, plaintively.

“It was my fault. I told you to do it,” he answered, with a sigh; and his eyes wandered around the room, noting vases of hot-house flowers and plates of fruit, purple grapes, contrasted with the delicate green of malagas, golden oranges, and crimson-cheeked apples.

“You have kind neighbors,” he said.

“Oh, yes; all the church people come to see me, and the preacher—though Rachel there doesn’t care about him,” reproachfully. “Mrs. Bowles, the housekeeper at Idlewild, comes often, too. She brought me the fruit and flowers from up there. Her mistress sent them—that grand Mrs. Varian, you know. I think it was kind in her after the way you treated her son.”

“Yes,” and he paled to the lips under his rich brown beard. “Well, and so they are there still?”

“She is. Arthur’s gone off somewhere, Mrs. Bowles said. I don’t know where.”

Mr. Dawn had no idea either. His daughter had not written him of her meeting with Arthur.

Presently he said, with a smile:

“Rebecca, I have a bright idea. Hurry up and get strong enough to travel, and I’ll take you and Rachel South with me on a visit to Cinthia, if you would like it.”

“Like it! Oh,” she cried, with sudden, pleasurable excitement, “indeed I should, Everard. It will take the rheumatism out of my old bones, the blessed sunshine of the warm South.”

“Yes; all you need is a change. You are not so much sick as just pining,” commented Rachel Dane.