“I don’t know what’s droll about that,” said Mrs. Swayne; “but I don’t know nought about her. She’s always been quiet and genteel as a lodger--always till this business came on about Mr. John. But I’d be glad to know where her friends was, if she’s got any friends. She’s as old as you, or older, and not to say any thing as is unpleasant--it’s an awful thing to think of--what if folks should go and die in your house, and you not know their friends?” “If it’s that you’re thinking of, she’s got no friends,” said Nancy, with a vehemence that seemed unnatural and uncalled-for to her companions--“none as I know of nowheres--but may be me. And it isn’t much as I could do. She’s a woman as has been awful plundered and wronged in her time. Mr. John! oh, I’d just like to hear what it is about Mr. John. If that was to come after all, I tell you it would call down fire from heaven.” “Goodness gracious me!” said Mrs. Swayne, “what does the woman mean?” And Betty too uttered a quavering exclamation, and they both drew their chairs closer to the separated seat, quite apart from the daïs of intimacy and friendship, upon which the dusty stranger had been permitted to rest. Nancy, however, had recollected herself. “Mean?” she said, with a look of innocence; “oh, I didn’t mean nothing; but that I’ve a kind of spite--I don’t deny it--at them grand Brownlows, that don’t take no notice to speak of their own flesh and blood. That’s all as I mean. I ain’t got no time to-day, but if you’ll say as Nancy Christian sends her compliments and wants badly to see Mrs. Preston, and is coming soon again, I’ll be as obliged as ever I can be. If it’s her, she’ll think on who Nancy Christian was; and if it ain’t her, it don’t make much matter,” she continued, with a sigh. She said these last words very slowly, looking at neither of her companions, fixing her eyes upon the door of Swayne’s cottage, at which Pamela had appeared. The sun came in at Betty’s door and dazzled the stranger’s eyes, and it was not easy for her at first to see Pamela, who stood in the shade. The girl had looked out for no particular reason, only because she was passing that way; and as she stood giving a glance up and a glance down the road--a glance which was not wistful, but full of a sweet confidence--Nancy kept staring at her, blinking her eyes to escape the sunshine. “Is that the girl?” she said, a little hoarsely. And then all the three looked out and gazed at Pamela in her tender beauty. Pamela saw them also. It did not occur to her whose the third head might be, nor did she care very much. She felt sure they were discussing her, shaking their heads over her imprudence; but Pamela at the moment was too happy to be angry. She said, “Poor old things,” to herself. They were poor old things; they had not the blood dancing in their veins as she had; they had not light little feet that flew over the paths, nor light hearts that leaped in their breasts, poor old souls.