Her father came down the walk toward them, and Arthur bent and whispered rapidly in her ear:
“Go in with him now, my own sweet love, for we can not defy him openly, we can only defeat him by strategy. Be brave, darling, for—I will come for you and take you away to-night.”
He kissed her, in spite of Mr. Dawn’s great eyes, and pushed her from him with gentle violence just as her father came out and took her hand.
“Come, Cinthia,” he said, with gentle firmness, and she followed, though she shook off his touch as though it had been a viper.
“Don’t touch me! I hate you—hate you!” she cried, like a little fury, her eyes flashing fire. “Do you think I will go with you to-morrow? Never—never! You have made my life empty of joy, and now you envy the sunshine that love has brought me! But you shall not part me from Arthur—no, no, no!” and desperately sobbing, she flung herself face downward on the floor.
He sought Mrs. Flint in terrible perturbation.
“Come, she is in hysterics!” he exclaimed, anxiously.
“I told you it would go hard with Cinthy,” she answered, curtly.
“Yes, I feared she would grieve; but, good Heaven! she is a little fury—all rage and rebellion, swearing she will not go with me to-morrow. She must be closely watched to-day, for there is no telling what such a desperate girl may do,” he said in alarm mixed with anger.
“Pshaw! she will simmer down when her fit of crying is over. I’ll get her upstairs and give her a soothing dose. Her temper-fits never last long, for Cinthy is a good child, after all, and I am sorry over her disappointment, she sets such store by love,” returned the old woman, in real sympathy for the girl and secret disapproval of his cold attitude to his neglected daughter.