DURING the little exchange of confidences between father and daughter, when d**k Jopling demanded an explanation from Martha as to her object in encouraging Randolph Pym’s advances, the young lady had displayed a good deal of determination.
“Do you suppose I am so dense that I am unable to read Pym?” she had asked. And by adding, “Why, he is like potter’s clay in my hands,” she had given a peculiar significance to her question; at the same time she fell into an error. To further his own dastardly schemes, and from motives of extreme selfishness, Pym had made her believe he was in love with her, and in doing so he hoped to use her as a means of influencing her father to perjure himself. Herein he had failed; but he had given evidence that he was not altogether the fictile substance she sup
