"My dear, she would never reveal that name. She loved him although he had betrayed her. She was afraid of our vengeance."
A look of keen disappointment came over the beautiful, mobile face.
"But, grandpa," she said, "when she wrote you from New York, after she left you, in the first flush of her happiness, when she had not your vengeance to fear, did she not reveal her name then?"
"Not even then," said the old man, bitterly. "She hinted that there was some innocent but just cause for secrecy just then, but that she would send her true name and address in the next letter. That next letter never came."
"There is not the slightest clew for me, then. I shall never find my mother," said the girl, sorrowfully.
"Golden, why should you wish to find her? She is a sinner, leading a life of shame. She deserted you in your helpless infancy to return to the arms of the villain who had betrayed her."
"So Uncle John says," returned the girl, meaningly.
He started, more at the tone than the words.
"Golden, do you doubt him?" he cried.
"Yes," said the girl steadily, turning on him the full splendor of her purple-blue eyes, in which glowed a spark of indignant fire. "Yes, grandpa, I doubt it. I utterly refuse to believe such a scandalous story of my mother."