“That is no answer,” said Sara, with all her natural vehemence. “Pamela, get up, and answer me like a sensible creature. I don’t mean to say it is your fault. A man might write to you and you might not be to blame. Tell me only what it means. What did he write to you about?” Then Pamela bethought herself that she too had a certain dignity to preserve; not her own so much as that which belonged to her in right of her betrothed. She got up hastily, blushing scarlet, and though she did not meet Sara’s angry questioning eyes, she turned her downcast face toward her with a certain steadfastness. “It is not any harm,” she said, softly, “and, Miss Brownlow, you are no--no--older than me.” “I am two years older than you,” said Sara, “and I know the world, and you don’t; and I am his sister. Oh, you foolish little thing! don’t you know it is wicked? If you had told me, I never, never would have let him trouble you. I never thought Jack would have done any thing so dreadful. It’s because you don’t know.” “Mamma knows,” said Pamela, with a certain self-assertion; and then her courage once more failed her. “I tried to stop him,” she said with the tears coming to her eyes, “and so did mamma. But I could not force him; not when he--he--would not. What I think of,” cried Pamela, “is him, not myself; but if he won’t, what _can_ I do?” “If he won’t what?” said Sara, in her amazement and wrath. But Pamela could make no answer; half with the bitterness of it, half with the sweetness of it, her heart was full. It was hard to be questioned and taken to task thus by her own friend; but it was sweet to know that what she could do was nothing, that her efforts had been vain, that _he_ would not give up. All this produced such a confusion in her that she could not say another word. She turned away, and once more covered her face with her hand; not that she was at all miserable--or if indeed it was a kind of misery, misery itself is sometimes sweet. As for Sara, she blazed upon her little companion with an indignation which was splendid to behold. “Your mamma knows,” she said, “and permits it! Oh, Pamela! that I should have been so fond of you, and that you should treat me like this!” “I am not treating you badly--it is you,” said Pamela, with a sob which she could not restrain, “who are cruel to me.” “If you think so, we had better part,” said Sara, with tragic grandeur. “We had better part, and forget that we ever knew each other. I could have borne any thing from you but being false. Oh, Pamela! how could you do it? To be treacherous to me who have always loved you, and to correspond with Jack!”