“I received his letter by the last mail. Here it is;” and he handed it to her. “Read it when you get home. I have written a few words to you, little playmate, also. He has told me all. Did you know this before?” “Yes, Lama,” said Mrs. Thornton, with a look of sorrowful sympathy. “You knew all my father’s fate?” “Yes, Lama.” “And you kept it secret?” “Yes, Lama. How could I bear to tell you and give you pain?” Her voice trembled as she spoke. Despard looked at her with an indescribable expression. “One thought,” said he, slowly, “and one feeling engrosses all my nature, and even this news that I have heard can not drive it away. Even the thought of my father’s fate, so dark and so mysterious, can not weaken the thoughts that have all my life been supreme. Do you know, little playmate, what those thoughts are?” She was silent. Despard’s hand wandered over the keys. They always spoke in low tones, which were almost whispers, tones which were inaudible except to each other. And Mrs. Thornton had to bow her head close to his to hear what he said. “I must go,” said Despard, after a pause, “and visit Brandon again. I do not know what I can do, but my father’s death requires further examination. This man Potts is intermingled with it. My uncle gives dark hints. I must make an examination.” “And you are going away again?” said Mrs. Thornton, sadly. Despard sighed. “Would it not be better,” said he, as he took her hand in his--“would it not be better for you, little playmate, if I went away from you forever?” She gave him one long look of sad reproach. Then tears filled her eyes. “This can not go on forever,” she murmured. “It must come to that at last!” CHAPTER XXIX. BEATRICE’S JOURNAL. October 30, 1848.--My recovery has been slow, and I am still far from well. I stay in my room almost altogether. Why should I do otherwise? Day succeeds day, and each day is a blank. My window looks on the sea, and I can sit there and feed my heart on the memories which that sea calls up. It is company for me in my solitude. It is music, though I can not hear its voice. Oh, how I should rejoice if I could get down by its margin and touch its waters! Oh how I should rejoice if those waters would flow over me forever! November 15.--Why I should write any thing now I do not know. This uneventful life offers nothing to record. Mrs. Compton is as timid, as gentle, and as affectionate as ever. Philips, poor, timorous, kindly soul, sends me flowers by her. Poor wretch, how did he ever get here? How did Mrs. Compton? December 28.--In spite of my quiet habits and constant seclusion I feel that I am under some surveillance, not from Mrs. Compton, but from others. I have been out twice during the last fortnight and perceived this plainly. Men in the walks who were at work quietly followed me with their eyes. I see that I am watched. I did not know that I was of sufficient importance.