When they grew calmer, Madame Ray said softly in her low, flute-like voice:
“I am glad indeed if I have been to you all that you say, Cinthia, dear, for you were indeed in need of love and care when we first met. I have lavished on you a mother’s love, while you have repaid me with a daughter’s, I know.”
“Yes—yes; but I could not fill up the void caused by your own child’s loss.”
“You have been a great comfort to me, dear, and I hope never to be parted from you in life unless you marry, and even then, dear, I shall manage to see you often, as a mother clings to a married daughter.”
“How I wish that you and papa would marry!” cried the eager girl.
“My dear, do not nourish such a thought. It can never be. I am sure that both our hearts are buried in our dear ones’ graves.”
“It does not seem as if papa really loved my mother much, or he would care more for me,” Cinthia exclaimed, with the old resentment of her father’s strange indifference.
“My dear, do not judge him harshly. Mr. Dawn looks to me like a man capable of strong affections, but he also bears on his face the signs of tragic happenings that have blighted the promise of his life. If you will take my judgment for it, dearest, your father is a most unhappy and weary man!” continued Madame Ray.
CHAPTER XXVI.
’NEATH SOUTHERN SKIES.
“A fairy land of flowers and fruits and sunshine