With all her affection for Margaret, this went through poor Catherine like a knife. “The bane of one is another's meat,” said she.
“Can he make me spend the money unjustly?” replied Margaret coldly.
“You are a good soul,” said Catherine. “Ay, so best, sith he is the strongest.”
The next day Giles dropped in, and Catherine told the story all in favour of the black sheep, and invited his pity for them, anathematized by their brother, and turned on the wide world by their father. But Giles's prejudices ran the other way; he heard her out, and told her bluntly the knaves had got off cheap; they deserved to be hanged at Margaret's door into the bargain, and dismissing them with contempt, crowed with delight at the return of his favourite. “I'll show him,” said he, “what 'tis to have a brother at court with a heart to serve a friend, and a head to point the way.”
“Bless thee, Giles,” murmured Margaret softly.
“Thou wast ever his stanch friend, dear Giles,” said little Kate; “but alack, I know not what thou canst do for him now.”
Giles had left them, and all was sad and silent again, when a well-dressed man opened the door softly, and asked was Margaret Brandt here.
“D'ye hear, lass? You are wanted,” said Catherine briskly. In her the Gossip was indestructible.
“Well, mother,” said Margaret listlessly, “and here I am.”
A shuffling of feet was heard at the door, and a colourless, feeble old man was assisted into the room. It was Ghysbrecht Van Swieten. At sight of him Catherine shrieked, and threw her apron over her head, and Margaret shuddered violently, and turned her head swiftly away, not to see him.