Joan drew her breath in sharp.
Once, back in the Dondale days, she had sung some of her old English ballads in costume—a quaint picture of her had been taken at the time and, for an instant, she thought this was it—she vaguely wondered how Thornton had got it—she could not think clearly—her brain was growing cloudy. Then she turned the old case over in her hand and looked at it mutely.
"They discounted your resemblance to my side of the house." There was something almost pathetic underlying the sneer in Thornton's voice. "I did not know myself until I came in the door—but when I saw you, it was as if my mother stood here."
Joan could not speak, but, as a change of wind turned the mists in The Gap to the east instead of from the east, so her clouds were drifting; drifting, and a flood of light was blinding her. She looked up—her eyes were shining with tears that did not fall; her lips twitched nervously, but she was happy; happy. The sensation brought strength and purpose. She did not seem alone—she was close, close to them who, unseen, but vital, were pressing near; waiting for her decision—now that she understood! What had her unconscious preparation done for her?
Oh! she would not fail them. She was almost ready to prove herself. In a moment she could master her emotions and be worthy.
Then she looked at Thornton and throbbed with hate; but as she looked her mood again changed—she felt such pity as she had never known in her life before.
It repelled; it did not attract—but it was pity that called forth a desire to help. Clasping the silent witnesses of the truth in her cold hands Joan spoke:
"No! Aunt Doris and Nancy shall not pay," she said, quietly.
"Who—then?" Thornton felt the ground slipping from under him. The young creature opposite looked so old and hard that she impressed him in spite of himself.
"You and I—will pay!"