He looked at her, startled.
"Hate your mother," he cried. "His own sister! No—of course not—that is, not until she fell!"
"He hated her then?" asked Golden, musingly.
"Yes, he hated her then. I believe he could have killed her."
"He should have killed her betrayer," said Golden, who seemed suddenly to have acquired the gravity and thoughtfulness of a woman.
"I would have killed him myself if I could have laid hands on the villain," said her grandfather, with sudden, irrepressible passion.
The bitter grief and impatient wrath of the girl had sobered down into quietness more grievous than tears.
Her face showed deathly white in the dim light; her lips were set in a line of intense pain; her pansy-blue eyes had grown black with feeling.
She brought a low stool and sat down at her grandfather's feet, folding her white hands meekly in her lap, and drooping her fair head heavily.