“I don’t know as I noticed it. I was so flustrated seeing you bringing a beau home, and you nothing but a child yet!” snapped the old lady.
“Child!” echoed Cinthia, scornfully, as she held her chilly fingers to the blaze and the ruddy light played over her beautiful garments.
“But what are you doing with the silk gown, and that grand white cloak, all brocade and ermine? I don’t understand!” cried the old lady, suspiciously.
Cinthia laughed out gayly, happily, her eyes shining, her voice as sweet as silver bells.
“Why, I was caught in the rain and almost drowned, Aunt Beck, and my wretched old duds were nothing but mud and water, so Mrs. Varian lent me these things to come home in. Aren’t they becoming? Don’t I look pretty?” setting her graceful head one side, like a bird.
“Humph! ‘Pretty is as pretty does,’” grunted her aunt, though she could not keep her eyes off the charming creature as she flung herself back in an easy-chair and continued, gayly:
“If you are not sleepy, Aunt Beck, I’ll tell you all about it.”
“I guess I can keep my eyes open!” ungraciously, though she was dying of curiosity.
Thereupon Cinthia related all the events of the evening, from the time she had left home until she bid Mrs. Varian good-night to return in the grand carriage with the handsome master of Idlewild. Clasping her tiny hands, she cried, in an ecstacy:
“Oh, aunt, I can’t tell you how I enjoyed it all! Mrs. Varian is as proud and beautiful as a queen; but she was so kind and sweet to me that I felt quite at home in her grand house. As for her son—oh!” and Cinthia paused and blushed divinely.