I came knowing well who the man was and what he was whom I had for my father. I came with every word of that despairing voyager ringing in my ears--that cry from the drifting _Vishnu_, where Despard laid down to die. How is it that his very name thrills through me? I am nothing to him. I am one of the hateful brood of murderers. A Thug was my father--and my mother who? And who am I, and what? At least my soul is not his, though I am his daughter. My soul is myself, and life on earth can not last forever. Hereafter I may stand where that man may never approach. How can I ever forget the first sight which I had of my father, who before I saw him had become to me as abhorrent as a demon! I came up in the coach to the door of the Hall and looked out. On the broad piazza there were two men; one was sitting, the other standing. The one who was standing was somewhat elderly, with a broad, fat face, which expressed nothing in particular but vulgar good-nature. He was dressed in black; and looked like a serious butler, or perhaps still more like some of the Dissenting ministers whom I have seen. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at me with a vacant smile. The other man was younger, not over thirty. He was thin, and looked pale from dissipation. His face was covered with spots, his eyes were gray, his eyelashes white. He was smoking a very large pipe, and a tumbler of some kind of drink stood on the stone pavement at his feet. He stared at me between the puffs of his pipe, and neither moved nor spoke. If I had not already tasted the bitterness of despair I should have tasted it as I saw these men. Something told me that they were my father and brother. My very soul sickened at the sight--the memory of Despard’s words came back--and if it had been possible to have felt any tender natural affection for them, this recollection would have destroyed it. “I wish to see Mr. Potts,” said I, coldly. My father stared at me. “I’m Mr. Potts,” he answered. “I am Beatrice,” said I; “I have just arrived from China.” By this time the driver had opened the door, and I got out and walked up on the piazza. “Johnnie,” exclaimed my father, “what the devil is the meaning of this?” “Gad, I don’t know,” returned John, with a puff of smoke. “Didn’t you say she was drowned off the African coast?” “I saw so in the newspapers.” “Didn’t you tell me about the _Falcon_ rescuing her from the pirates, and then getting wrecked with all on board?” “Yes, but then there was a girl that escaped.” “Oh ho!” said my father, with a long whistle. “I didn’t know that.” He turned and looked at me hastily, but in deep perplexity. “So you’re the girl, are you?” said he at last. “I am your daughter,” I answered. I saw him look at John, who winked in return. He walked up and down for a few minutes, and at last stopped and looked at me again. “That’s all very well,” said he at last, “but how do I know that you’re the party? Have you any proof of this?” “No.”