“Haven’t you told him, Aunt Beck, about—about—Arthur?” blushing vividly.
“Yes—yes, dear.”
Cinthia nodded her head at him with a mixture of childish triumph and womanliness.
“You see,” she said, proudly, “I am going to be married soon. I shall have a husband who will give me all I want—even,” bitterly, “the love I have missed all my life!” tears sparkling into her eyes under the curling lashes.
He felt the keen reproach deeply, and exclaimed, gently and sadly:
“Poor little Cinthia.”
“Not poor now,” she answered, quickly. “It is rich Cinthia now—rich in Arthur’s love and the certainty of a happy future.”
She meant to be scathing, poor, neglected, wounded Cinthia, but she could never guess how the words cut into his heart and tortured him with secret agony—he who meant to lay her love and hopes in ruins, to blight all the joys of her life by the exercise of a father’s privilege of breaking her will.
But no shadow crossed his face, no trouble was apparent in his manner as he laughed easily, and answered:
“Nonsense! you are scarcely more than a child yet—too young to be dreaming of marriage. I shall send you to school to complete your education before you can begin to think of lovers.”