“It might kill her,” said Jack, impressively; “and then whom would you have to blame? Not my father, for he has nothing to do with it; but yourself, Mrs. Preston--that’s how it would be. Just look at what a little delicate darling she is--a little bit of a thing that one could carry away in one’s arms,” he went on, growing more and more animated--“a little face like a flower; and after the bad illness she had. I would not take such a responsibility for any thing in the world,” he added, with severe and indignant virtue. As for poor Mrs. Preston, she did not know what to do. She wrung her hands; she looked at him beseechingly, begging him with her eyes to cease. Every feature of the picture came home to her with a much deeper force than it did to her mentor. Jack no more believed in any danger to Pamela than he did in his own ultimate rejection; but the poor mother beheld her daughter pining, dying, breaking her heart, and trembled to her very soul. “Oh, Mr. John,” she cried, with tears, “don’t break my heart! What am I to do? If I must either ruin you with your father--” “Or kill your child,” said Jack, looking at her solemnly till his victim shuddered. “Your child is more to you than my father: besides,” said the young man, unbending a little, “it would not ruin me with my father. He might be angry. He might make himself disagreeable; but he’s not a muff to bear malice. My father,” continued Jack, with emphasis, feeling that he owed his parent some reparation, and doing it magnificently when he was about it, “is as true a gentleman as I know. He’s not the man to ruin a fellow. You think of Pamela, and never mind me.”