The girl's voice trembled. "You know," she said, "I hate and despise her."
"Why?"
"We have nothing in common—beyond parentage and this abominable resemblance. Our natures differ as light from darkness."
"And which would you say was—light?"
"Hardly my own: I'm no hypocrite. Rose is everything that they tell me my mother was, while I"—the girl smiled strangely—"I think—I am more your daughter than my mother's."
A nod of the white head confirmed the suggestion. "It is true. I have watched you closely, Judith. Before I was brought to this"—the wasted hand made a significant gesture—"I was a man of strong passions. … Your mother never loved, but rather feared, me. And Rose is the mirror of her mother's nature: gentle, unselfish, sympathetic. But you, Judith, you are like a second self to me."
An accent of satisfaction was in his voice. The girl waited, tensely expectant.
"Then, if I were to ask a service of you that might injuriously affect the happiness of your sister"
The girl laughed briefly: "Only ask it!"
"And how far would you go to do my will"
"Where would you stop in the service of one you loved?"
Seneca Trine permitted himself an odd mirthless
