“Yes,” he said, in a faint imploring voice. I began a low song--a strain associated with that same childhood of which I had just been thinking--a low, sad strain, sweet to my ears and to my soul; it spoke of peace and innocence, quiet home joys, and calm delights. My own mind brought before me the image of the house where I had lived, with the shadow of great trees around, and gorgeous flowers every where, where the sultry air breathed soft, and beneath the hot noon all men sank to rest and slumber. When I stopped I turned again. Philips had not changed his attitude. But as I turned he uttered an exclamation and tore out his watch. “Oh, Heavens!--two hours!” he exclaimed. “He’ll kill me for this.” With these words he rushed out of the room. I kept up my music for about ten days, when one day it was stopped forever. I was in the middle of a piece when I heard heavy footsteps behind me. I turned and saw my father. I rose and looked at him with an effort to be respectful. It was lost on him, however. He did not glance at me. “I came up to say to you,” said he, after a little hesitation, “that I can’t stand this infernal squall and clatter any longer. So in future you just shut up.” He turned and left me. I closed the piano forever, and went to my room. The year ended, and a new year began. January passed away. My melancholy began to affect my health. I scarcely ever slept at night, and to eat was difficult. I hoped that I was going to die. Alas! death will not come when one calls. One day I was in my room lying on the couch when Mrs. Compton came. On entering she looked terrified about something. She spoke in a very agitated voice: “They want you down stairs.” “Who?” “Mr. Potts and John.” “Well,” said I, and I prepared to get ready. “When do they want me?” “Now,” said Mrs. Compton, who by this time was crying. “Why are you so agitated?” I asked. “I am afraid for you.” “Why so? Can any thing be worse?” “Ah, my dearest! you don’t know--you don’t know.” I said nothing more, but went down. On entering the room I saw my father and John seated at a table with brandy before them. A third man was there. He was a thick-set man of about the same height of my father, but more muscular, with a strong, square jaw, thick neck, low brow, and stern face. My father did not show any actual ferocity in his face whatever he felt; but this man’s face expressed relentless cruelty. On entering the room I walked up a little distance and stood looking at them. “There, Clark; what do you think of that?” said my father. The name, Clark, at once made known to me who this man was--that old associate of my father--his assistant on board the _Vishnu_. Yet the name did not add one whit to the abhorrence which I felt--my father was worse even than he. The man Clark looked at me scrutinizingly for some time. “So that’s the gal,” said he, at last. “That’s the gal,” said my father. Clark waved his hand at me. “Turn round sideways,” said he.