When this instant of utter forgetfulness was over, Pamela began to cry, and Jack’s arm dropped from her waist. It was the next inevitable stage. They made two or three steps by each other’s side, separate, despairing, miserable. Then it was the woman’s turn to take the initiative. She was crying, but she could still speak--indeed, it is possible that her speech would have been less natural had it been without those breaks in the soft voice. “I am not angry,” she said, “because it is the last time. I shall never, never forget you; but oh, it was all a mistake, all from the beginning. We never--meant--to grow fond of each other,” said Pamela through her sobs; “it was all--all a mistake.” “I was fond of you the very first minute I saw you,” said Jack; “I did not know then, but I know it now. It was no mistake;--that time when I carried you in out of the snow. I was fond of you then, just as I am now--as I shall be all my life.” “No,” said Pamela, “oh no. It is different--every day in your life you see better people than I am. Don’t say any thing else. It is far better for me to know. I have been a--a little--contented ever since I thought of that.” These words once more put Jack’s self-denial all to flight. “Better people than you are?” he cried. “Oh, Pamela! I never saw any body half as sweet, half as lovely, all my life.” “Hush! hush! hush!” said Pamela; they were not so separate now, and she put her soft little hand up, as if to lay it on his lips. “You think so, but it is all--all a mistake!” Then Jack looked into her sweet tearful eyes, nearer, far nearer than he had ever looked before--and they were eyes that could bear looking into, and the sweetness and the bitterness filled the young man’s heart. “My little love!” he cried, “it is not you who are a mistake.” And he clasped her, almost crushed her waist with his arm in his vehemence. Every thing else was a mistake--himself, his position, _her_ position, all the circumstances; but not Pamela. This time she disengaged herself, but very softly, from his arm. “I do not mind,” she said, looking at him with an innocent, wistful tenderness, “because it is the last time. If you had not cared, I should have been vexed. One can’t help being a little selfish. Last time, if you had said you were fond of me, I should have been frightened; but now I am glad, very glad you are fond of me. It will always be something to look back to. I shall remember every word you said, and how you looked. Mamma says life is so hard,” said Pamela, faltering a little, and looking far away beyond her lover, as if she could see into a long stretch of life. So she did; and it looked a desert, for he was not to be there. “Don’t speak like that,” cried Jack; “life shall not be hard to you--not while I live to take care of you--not while I can work--”