"Thank you," she said, gratefully. "I am so glad you are not angry with me. And now, dear grandpa, I am going to kneel right here and listen while you tell me my mother's story."
In the momentary silence the wind outside seemed to sigh more sadly through the trees; the dim light flared and flickered, casting weird, fantastic shadows in the corners of the room. Deep, heavy sighs quivered over the old man's lips as the beautiful, child-like girl knelt there, with her blue eyes lifted so eagerly to his face.
[CHAPTER XII.]
"You are the image of your mother, my child," said Golden's grandfather. "She had a white skin, pink cheeks, blue eyes, and shining hair. You inherit her happy, light-hearted disposition. You bear the same name also—Golden Glenalvan."
"Why was I never called by my father's name?" asked innocent Golden.
"My child, you anticipate my story," he answered, "but I will tell you. You have no right to your father's name."
A cry of terror came from the parted lips of the girl.
"Oh, grandpa, you do not mean that—you could not be so cruel!"
"You must remember that it is not my fault," he answered.