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.
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.