“I have been in York, in Calcutta, and in Manilla: and I know what Potts did in each place. You look frightened. You have every reason to be so. I know what was done at York. I know that you were sent to Botany Bay. I know that you ran away from your father to India. I know your life there. I know how narrowly you escaped going on board the _Vishnu_, and being implicated in the Manilla murder. Madman that you were, why did you not take your poor mother and fly from these wretches forever?” Philips trembled from head to foot. He said not a word, but bowed his head upon his knees and wept. “Where is she now?” said Smithers, sternly. Philips mechanically raised his head, and pointed over toward Brandon Hall. “Is she confined against her will?” Philips shook his head. “She stays, then, through love of you?” Philips nodded. “Is any one else there?” said Smithers, after a pause, and in a strange, sad voice, in which there was a faltering tone which Philips, in his fright, did not notice. “Miss Potts,” he said. “She is treated cruelly,” said Smithers. “They say she is a prisoner?” Philips nodded. “Has she been sick?” “Yes.” “How long?” “Eight months, last year.” “Is she well now?” “Yes.” Smithers bowed his head in silence, and put his hand on his heart. Philips watched him in an agony of fright, as though every instant he was apprehensive of some terrible calamity. “How is she?” continued Smithers, after a time. “Has she ever been happy since she went there?” Philips shook his head slowly and mournfully. “Does her father ever show her any affection?” “Never.” “Does her brother?” “Never.” “Is there any one who does?” “Yes.” “Who?” “Mrs. Compton.” “Your mother?” “Yes.” “I will not forget that. No, I will never forget that. Do you think that she is exposed to any danger?” “Miss Potts?” Smithers bowed. “I don’t know. I sometimes fear so.” “Of what kind?” “I don’t know. Almost any horrible thing may happen in that horrible place.” A pang of agony shot across the sombre brow of Smithers. He was silent for a long time. “Have you ever slighted her?” he asked at last. “Never,” cried Philips. “I could worship her--” Smithers smiled upon him with a smile so sweet that it chased all Philips’s fears away. He took courage and began to show more calm. “Fear nothing,” said Smithers, in a gentle voice. “I see that in spite of your follies and crimes there is something good in you yet. You love your mother, do you not?” Tears came into Philips’s eyes. He sighed. “Yes,” he said, humbly. “And you are kind to _her_--that other one?” “I love her as my mother,” said Philips, earnestly. Smithers again relapsed into silence for a long time. At last he looked up. Philips saw his eyes this time, no longer stern and wrathful, but benignant and indulgent.