“Yes;” and she looked around at him with a flushed face, crying: “Oh, papa, you were jesting?”
“No. I can not give you to Arthur Varian, Cinthia. You must forget him, my dear child.”
“I can not, will not! I should die without him!” passionately.
“No, no, you will soon get over this fancy, for you have known Mr. Varian but a little time, and to-morrow I shall take you away from this place, and amid new surroundings you will forget the face that dazzled you here.”
“I will never forget Arthur, nor will I go away!” she protested.
“You can not set at naught a father’s authority, Cinthia.”
“I disclaim it, I defy it! You have given me neither love nor care, so you forfeit every right! Oh, I am sorry you ever came back here!” stormed the angry girl.
“Cinthy, Cinthy, come and help me with the work!” her aunt called, sharply; and she left him with the mien of an offended princess.
He took refuge in a cigar, and smoked moodily, till the click of the gate-latch made him look up, with a face working with emotion, at a handsome, elegantly clad young man walking up to the door.
Cinthia had gone upstairs to make the beds, and her aunt went to admit the caller.