“Mr. Brownlow,” she said, “I dare say you think women are very ignorant, especially about business--and so they are; but you and your father should remember--you should remember that weak folks, when they are put to it--Pamela! sit down, child, and don’t interfere; or, if you like, you can go away.” “What have I done, Mrs. Preston!” said Jack. “I don’t know what you mean. If it is because I have been some days without coming, the reason is--But I told Pamela all about it. If that is the reason--” “That!” cried Mrs. Preston, and then her voice began to tremble; “if you think your coming or--or going is--any--any thing--” she said, and then her lips quivered so that she could articulate no more. Pamela, with a great cry, rushed to her and seized her hands, which were trembling too, and Jack, who thought it was a sudden “stroke,” seized his hat and rushed to the door to go for a doctor; but Mrs. Preston held out her shaking hands to him so peremptorily that he stopped in spite of himself. She was trembling all over--her head, her lips, her whole frame, yet keeping entire command of herself all the time. “I am not ill,” she said; “there is no need for a doctor.” And then she sat resolutely looking at him, holding her feet fast on the floor and her hand flat on the table to stop the movement of her nerves. It was a strange sight. But when the two who had been looking at her with alarmed eyes, suddenly, in the height of their wonder, turned to each other with a glance of mutual inquiry and sympathy, appealing to each other what it could mean, Mrs. Preston could not bear it. Her intense self-command gave way. All at once she fell into an outbreak of wailing and tears. “You are two of you against me,” she said. “You are saying to each other, What does she mean! and there is nobody on earth--nobody to take my part.” The outcry went to Jack Brownlow’s heart. Somehow he seemed to understand better than even Pamela did, who clung to her mother and cried, and asked what was it--what had she done! Jack was touched more than he could explain. The thunder was rolling about the house, and the rain falling in torrents; but he had not the heart to stay any longer and thrust his happiness into her face, and wound her with it. Somehow he felt ashamed; and yet he had nothing to be ashamed about, unless, in presence of this agitation and pain and weakness, it was his own strength and happiness and youth. “I don’t mind the storm,” he said. “I am sure you don’t want any one here just now. Don’t let your mother think badly of me, Pamela. You know I would do any thing--and I can’t tell what’s wrong; and I am going away. Good-night.” “Not till the storm is over,” cried Pamela. “Mamma, he will get killed--you know he will, among those trees.”