“I will not go!” she said rebelliously, with startled eyes upon his inscrutable face.
“Cinthy!” reproved her aunt.
“I will not go!” the girl repeated, defiantly. “I shall marry Arthur, as I promised, before Christmas!”
She sprung from her seat and rushed to the window, drumming tempestuously upon the pane, her habit when greatly excited.
Outside the prospect was dreary. The débris of yesterday’s storm littered the ground, the limbs of some of the trees hung broken, the sun was hidden under clouds that hinted at snow.
Mrs. Flint whispered to her brother, apprehensively:
“I told you so. She has a rebellious will, and she thinks you have no authority over her now, because you stayed away so long.”
“She will find out better about that before long,” he answered, decisively, though the curious paleness of last night settled again upon his handsome face.
He went over and stood by Cinthia’s side.
“It will snow before to-morrow,” he said, quietly.