Here she stopped half frightened, for Jack had risen up, and was looking at her over the light of the candle, looking pale and somewhat threatening. He was not in a sentimental attitude, neither was there any thing about him that breathed the tender romance for which in her heart Mrs. Preston sighed, and without which it cost her an effort to believe in his sincerity. He was standing with his hands thrust down to the bottom of his pockets, his brow a little knitted, his face pale, his expression worried and impatient. “What is the use of beginning over and over again?” said Jack. “Do you think I could have found out like this a thing that hadn’t been in existence for months and months? Why, the first time I saw you in Hobson’s cart--the time I carried her in out of the snow--” When he had got this length, he walked away to the window and stood looking out, though the blind was down, with his back turned upon her--“with her little red cloak, and her pretty hair,” said Jack, with a curious sound which would not bear classification. It might have been a laugh, or a sob, or a snort--and it was neither; anyhow, it expressed the emotion within him better than half a hundred fine speeches. “And you don’t believe in me after all that!” he said, coming back again and looking at her once more over the light of the candle. Perhaps it was something in Jack’s eyes, either light or moisture, it would be difficult to tell which, that overpowered Mrs. Preston, for the poor woman faltered and began to cry. “I do believe in you,” she said. “I do--and I love you for saying it; but oh, Mr. John, what am I to do? I can’t let you ruin yourself with your father. I can’t encourage you when I know what it will cost you; and then, my own child--” “That’s it,” said Jack, drawing his chair over to her side of the table, with his first attempt at diplomacy--“that’s what we’ve got to think of. It doesn’t matter for a fellow like me. If I got disappointed and cut up I should have to bear it; but as for Pamela, you know--dear little soul! You may think it strange, but,” said Jack, with a little affected laugh, full of that supreme vanity and self-satisfaction with which a man recognizes such a fact, “she is fond of me; and if she were disappointed and put out, you know--why, it might make her ill--it might do her no end of harm--it might--Seriously, you know,” said Jack, looking in Mrs. Preston’s face, and giving another and another hitch to his chair. Though her sense of humor was not lively, she dried her eyes and looked at him with a little bewilderment, wondering was he really in earnest? did he mean it? or what did he mean? “She is very young,” said Mrs. Preston; “no doubt it would do her harm; but I should be there to nurse her--and--and--she is so young.”