“I—I—can’t help it,” sobbed the girl, pulling away her hand—not on account of propriety, by any means: that never entered her young head—but for the purpose of searching for a kerchief in a pocket that was always undiscoverable among bewildering folds. “If—if—you only knew how long, long it is since I heard an English—(where is that thing!)—an English voice, you would not wonder. And my father, my dear, dear, darling father—I have not heard of him for—for—”
Here the poor thing broke down again and sobbed aloud, while the midshipman looked on, imbecile and helpless. “Pray, don’t cry,” said Foster again earnestly. “Who are you? where did you come from? Who and where is your father? Do tell me, and how I can help you, for we may be interrupted?”
This last remark did more to quiet the girl than anything else he had said.
“You are right,” she replied, drying her eyes quickly. “And, do you know the danger you run if found conversing with me?”
“No—not great danger, I hope?”
“The danger of being scourged to death, perhaps,” she replied.
“Then pray do be quick, for I’d rather not get such a whipping—even for your sake!”
“But our owner is not cruel,” continued the girl. “He is kind—”
“Owner! Is he not, then, your husband?”
“Oh, no. He says he is keeping me for his son, who is away on a long voyage. I have never seen him—and—I have such a dread of his coming back!”