Ever since Golden could remember, it had been so. She had questioned her grandfather and she had questioned Dinah, but they gave her no satisfaction on the subject.
It remained a pregnant mystery to the lonely child, living her thoughtless, girlish life in the ruined rooms of the western wing, and in the tangled gardens, and the wild, green wood.
A brief time of impatient waiting, then Golden heard the murmur of voices beneath the window.
She leaned her curly head out, and heard one sentence spoken in the clear, curt voice of John Glenalvan:
"You understand now, father, how important it is to us that you should keep Golden's daughter more carefully secluded?"
"The child will fret—she has been so used to an outdoor life, it will injure her health," feebly objected the old man.
"Her health is the poorest objection you could urge with me," said John Glenalvan, cruelly. "If she had died long ago it would have been the very best thing that could have happened for us all."
The father's reply was lost in the distance as they passed on. They came in at the front door, passed down the long corridor, and separated to their divided abodes.
Golden's grandfather came heavily into the quiet sitting-room, leaning on his oaken cane, and sought his favorite chair at the sunny window where the flowers bloomed and the bright-winged butterflies hovered.