The old lady, moved in spite of herself, and secretly proud of Cinthia’s conquest, actually kissed the rosy cheek, saying, merrily:
“Good-night—Mrs. Varian that is to be.”
Cinthia’s heart leaped with joy and pride, for she took this concession to mean approbation of her choice.
With the chorus of a love song Arthur had sung that evening on her happy lips, she went upstairs to her pretty bed-room, and was soon fast asleep and dreaming sweetly of her splendid lover.
But as for Mrs. Flint, she sat down again by the fire, in a sort of dazed condition, to think it all over.
Little Cinthia engaged to be married! Why, it was like some strange dream!
But the more she thought it over, the better pleased she was, for Cinthia’s future had been a burden to her mind, and this would be such a relief, marrying her off to such a good catch as Arthur Varian. Why, the little girl had done as well for herself as the most anxious father could desire, and she decided to give her consent to the match to-morrow without the formality of asking his advice.
Just as she came to this conclusion, she was startled again by another rat-a-tat upon the door.
“Good gracious! Who can it be knocking there at midnight almost? Some lunatic, surely! Or maybe Cinthia’s beau come back to ask for her to-night, too impatient to wait for morning!” she soliloquized, as she sallied out into the hall, with the demand:
“Who’s there?”