Beatrice had not moved. She heard Brandon speak to some one, and at first gave herself up for lost, but in an instant she understood the full meaning of his words. To his admirable presence of mind she added her own. She did not move, but allowed her head to rest where it was, feeling a delicious joy in the thought that Potts was looking on and was utterly deceived. When he left to call a servant she raised her head and gave Brandon a last look expressive of her deathless, her unutterable love. Again and again he pressed her to his heart. Then the noise of servants coming in roused him. He gently placed her on a sofa, and supported her with a grave and solemn face. “Here, Mrs. Compton. Take charge of her,” said Potts. “She’s been trying to faint.” Mrs. Compton came up, and kneeling down kissed Beatrice’s hands. She said nothing. “Oughtn’t she to have a doctor?” said Brandon. “Oh no--she’ll get over it. Take her to her room, Mrs. Compton.” “Can the poor child walk?” asked Brandon. Beatrice rose. Mrs. Compton asked her to take her arm. She did so, and leaning heavily upon it, walked away. [Illustration: “THE DEVIL!” ... POTTS STOOD BEFORE THEM.] “She seems very delicate,” said Brandon. “I did not know that you had a daughter.” Potts sighed. “I have,” said he, “to my sorrow.” “To your sorrow!” said Brandon, with exquisitely simulated sympathy. “Yes,” replied the other. “I wouldn’t tell it to every one--but you, Mr. Smithers, are different from most people. You see I have led a roving life. I had to leave her out in China for many years with a female guardian. I suppose she was not very well taken care of. At any rate, she got acquainted out there with a strolling Italian vagabond, a drum-major in one of the regiments, named Langhetti, and this villain gained her affections by his hellish arts. He knew that I was rich, and, like an unprincipled adventurer, tried to get her, hoping to get a fortune. I did not know any thing about this till after her arrival home. I sent for her some time ago and she came. From the first she was very sulky. She did not treat me like a daughter at all. On one occasion she actually abused me and called me names to my face. She called me a Thug! What do you think of that, Mr. Smithers?” The other said nothing, but there was in his face a horror which Potts considered as directed toward his unnatural offspring. “She was discontented here, though I let her have every thing. I found out in the end all about it. At last she actually ran away. She joined this infamous Langhetti, whom she had discovered in some way or other. They lived together for some time, and then went to London, where she got a situation as an actress. You can imagine by that,” said Potts, with sanctimonious horror, “how low she had fallen.