“There are different kinds of amusement,” said Mr. Brownlow. “Does not your mother come out with you when you come to walk? You are too young to be left by yourself. Don’t be vexed with me for saying so. You are but a child;--and I once knew some one who was like you,” he said, looking at her again with friendly compassionate eyes. He was thinking as he looked at her that Jack had been right. He was even sorry in an inexorable way for her disappointment, her inevitable heart-break, which he hoped, at her age, would be got over lightly. Yes; no doubt she was innocent, foolish, poor little thing, and it was she who would have to pay for that--but spotless and guileless all through, down to the very depths of her dewy eyes. Pamela stood before her mentor with her cheeks blazing and burning and her eyes cast down. Then she saw but too well what he had meant. He had seen her yesterday with his son, and he had sent Mr. John away, and it was all ended forever. This was what it meant, as Pamela thought. And it was natural that she should feel her heart rise against him. He was very kind, but he was inexorable. She stood by him with her heart swelling so against her bosom that she thought it would burst, but too proud to make any sign. This was why he had addressed her, brought her away from her mother’s door, contrived to speak to her alone. Pamela’s heart swelled, and a wild anger took possession of her; but she stood silent before him, and answered not a single word. He had no claim upon her that she should take his advice or obey him. To him at least she had nothing to say. “It is true, my poor child,” he said again, “there are some pleasures that are very costly, and are not worth the cost. You are angry, but I can not help it. Tell your mother, and she will say the same thing as I do--and go with her when you go out. You are very young, and you will find this always the best.” “I don’t know why you should speak to me so,” said Pamela, with her heart beating, as it were, in her very ears. “Miss Brownlow goes out by herself--I--I--am a poor girl--I can not be watched always--and, oh, why should I, why should I?” cried the girl, with a little burst of passion. Her cheeks were crimson, and her eyes were full, but she would not have dropped the tears that were brimming over her eyelids, or let him see her crying--not for the world. “Poor child!” said Mr. Brownlow. It was all he said; and it gave the last touch to her suppressed rage and passion--how did he dare call her poor child? But Sara came out just then from old Betty’s, and stood stock-still, confounded by her friend’s looks. Sara could see that something had happened, but she could not tell what it was. She looked from Pamela to her father, and from her father to Pamela, and could make nothing of it. “What is the matter?” she asked, in surprise; and then it was Pamela’s turn to bethink herself, and defend her own cause.