“No it ain’t, it’s the girl herself. I don’t like the way she has of looking at me and through me.” “Why, that’s the way with that kind. It’s what the lords like.” “I don’t like it, then, and I tell you _she’s got to be took down!_” This was the last I heard. Yet one thing was evident to me from their conversation. My father had some wild plan of effecting an entrance into society through me. He thought that after he was once recognized he might get sufficient influence to gain a title and found a family. I also might marry a lord. He thus dreamed of being Lord Brandon, and one of the great nobles of the land. Amidst my sadness I almost smiled at this vain dream; but yet John’s words affected me strongly--“You’ve played such good little games in your life.” Well I knew with whom they were played. One was with Despard, the other with Brandon. This then was the reason why he had sent for me from China. The knowledge of his purpose made my life neither brighter nor darker. I still lived on as before. During these months Mrs. Compton’s tender devotion to me never ceased. I respected her, and forbore to excite that painful fear to which she was subject. Once or twice I forgot myself and began speaking to her about her strange position here. She stopped me with her look of alarm. “Are you not afraid to be kind to me?” I asked. She looked at me piteously. “You are the only one that is kind to me,” I continued. “How have you the courage?” “I can not help it,” she murmured, “you are so dear to me.” She sighed and was silent. The mystery about her remained unchanged; her gentle nature, her tender love, and her ever-present fear. What was there in her past that so influenced her life? Had she too been mixed up with the crime on the _Vishnu_? She! impossible. Yet surely something as dark as that must have been required to throw so black a cloud over her life. Yet what--what could that have been? In spite of myself I associate her secret with the tragedy of Despard. She was in his family long. His wife died. She must have been with her at the time. The possibilities that have suggested themselves to my mind will one day drive me mad. Alas, how my heart yearns over that lonely man in the drifting ship! And yet, merciful God! who am I that I should sympathize with him? My name is infamy, my blood is pollution. I spoke to her once in a general way about the past. Had she ever been out of England? I asked. “Yes,” she answered, dreamily. “Where?” She looked at me and said not a word. At another time I spoke of China, and hinted that perhaps she too knew something about the East. The moment that I said this I repented. The poor creature was shaken from head to foot with a sudden convulsion of fear. This convulsion was so terrible that it seemed to me as though another would be death. I tried to soothe her, but she looked fearfully at me for a long time after.