not, as may be supposed, an enlivening effect upon the conversation. Then she stooped and pretended to look at Pamela’s work; then she gave the provoking envelope a little stealthy touch with the end of her parasol. Perhaps scrupulous honor would have forbidden these little attempts to discover the secret; but when a sister perceives her brother’s handwriting on the work-table of her friend, it is hard to resist the inclination to make sure in the first place that it is his, in the second place to whom it is addressed. This was all that Sara was guilty of. She would not have peeped into the note for a kingdom, but she did want to know whom it was written to. Perhaps it was only some old scrap of paper, some passing word about mendings or fittings to Mr. Swayne. Perhaps--and then Sara gave the envelope stealthily that little poke with her parasol. A few minutes after she got up to go: her complexion had heightened suddenly in the strangest way, her eyes had taken a certain rigid look, which meant excitement and wrath. “Will you come out with me a little way? I want to speak to you,” she said, as Pamela went with her to the door. It was very different from those old beseeching, tender, undeniable invitations which the one had been in the habit of giving to the other; but there was something in it which constrained Pamela, though she trembled to her very heart, to obey. She did not know any thing about the envelope; she had forgotten it--forgotten that she had left it there, and had not perceived Sara’s stealthy exertions to secure a sight of it. But nevertheless she knew there was something coming. She took down her little black hat, trembling, and stole out, a dark little figure, beside Sara, stately in her light flowing draperies. They did not say a word to each other as they crossed the road and entered at the gates and passed Betty’s cottage. Betty came to the door and looked after them with a curiosity so great that she was tempted to follow and creep under the bushes, and listen; but Sara said nothing to betray herself as long as they were within the range of old Betty’s eye. When they had got to the chestnut-trees, to that spot where Mr. Brownlow had come upon his son and his son’s love, and where there was a possibility of escaping from the observation of spectators at the gate, Sara’s composure gave way. All at once she seized Pamela’s arm, who turned round to her with her lips apart and her heart struggling up into her mouth with terror. “Jack has been writing to you,” said Sara; “tell me what it has been about.” “What it has been about!” said Pamela, with a cry. The poor little girl was so taken by surprise that all her self-possession forsook her. Her knees trembled, her heart beat, fluttering wildly in her ears; she sank down on the grass in her confusion, and covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Miss Brownlow!” was all that she was able to say.