Whatever may have been the thoughts of Brandon during the fortnight of his seclusion, or whatever may have been the conclusion to which he came, he carefully refrained from the most remote hint at the home or the prospects of Beatrice. He found her on the seas, and he was content to take her as she was. Her name was a common one. She might be connected with his enemy, or she might not. For his part, he did not wish to know. Beatrice also showed equal care in avoiding the subject. The effect which had been produced by the mention of her name was still remembered, and, whatever the cause may have been, both this and her own strong dislike to it prevented her from ever making any allusion either to her father or to any one of her family. She had no scruples, however, about talking of her Hong-Kong life, in which one person seemed to have figured most prominently--a man who had lived there for years, and given her instruction in music. He was an Italian, of whom she knew nothing whatever but his name, with the exception of the fact that he had been unfortunate in Europe, and had come out to Hong-Kong as bandmaster of the Twentieth Regiment. His name was Paolo Langhetti. “Do you like music?” asked Brandon, abruptly. “Above all things.” said Beatrice, with an intensity of emphasis which spoke of deep feeling. “Do you play?” “Somewhat.” “Do you sing?” “A little. I was considered a good singer in Hong-Kong; but that is nothing. I sang in the Cathedral. Langhetti was kind enough to praise me; but then he was so fond of me that whatever I did was right.” Brandon was silent for a little while. “Langhetti was fond of you?” he repeated, interrogatively, and in a voice of singular sweetness. “Very,” returned Beatrice, musingly. “He always called me ‘Bice’--sometimes ‘Bicetta,’ ‘Bicinola,’ ‘Bicina;’ it was his pretty Italian way. But oh, if you could hear him play! He could make the violin speak like a human voice. He used to think in music. He seemed to me to be hardly human sometimes.” “And he loved to hear you sing?” said Brandon, in the same voice. “He used to praise me,” said Beatrice, meekly. “His praise used to gratify, but it did not deceive me. I am not conceited, Mr. Wheeler.” “Would you sing for me?” asked Brandon, in accents almost of entreaty, looking at her with an imploring expression. Beatrice’s head fell. “Not now--not yet--not here,” she murmured, with a motion of her hand. “Wait till we pass beyond this ocean. It seems haunted.” Brandon understood her tone and gesture. But the weeks passed, and the months, and they went over the seas, touching at Mauritius, and afterward at Cape Town, till finally they entered the Atlantic Ocean, and sailed North. During all this time their association was close and continuous. In her presence Brandon softened; the sternness of his features relaxed, and the great purpose of his life grew gradually fainter.