“I don’t put no faith in them being only children,” said Mrs. Swayne. “It comes terrible soon, does that sort of thing; and a gentleman has nice ways with him. When she’s once had one of that sort a-running after her, a girl don’t take to an honest man as talks plain and straightforward. That’s my opinion; and, thank Providence, I’ve been in the way of temptation myself, and I know what it all means.” Mrs. Swayne’s lodger did not seem at all delighted by these commentaries. A little flush of pride or pain came over her colorless cheek; and she kept glancing back at the sofa on which her daughter lay. “My Pamela is a little lady, if ever there was a lady,” she said, in a nervous undertone; but it was evidently a question she did not mean to discuss with her landlady; and thus the conversation came to a pause. Mrs. Swayne, however, was not easily subdued; and curiosity urged her even beyond her wont. “I think you said as you had friends here?” she said, making a new start. “No, no friends. We’re alone in the world, she and I,” said the woman, hastily. “We’ve been long away, and every body is dead that ever belonged to us. She hasn’t a soul but me, poor dear, and I’m old. It’s dreadful to be old and have a young child. If I was to die--but we’re not badly off,” she continued, with a faint smile in answer to an alarmed glance all around the room from Mrs. Swayne, “and I’m saving up every penny for her. If I could only see her as well and rosy as she used to be!” “That will come in time,” said the landlady. “Don’t you be afeard. It’s beautiful air; and what with fresh milk and new-laid eggs, she’ll come round as fast as the grass grows. You’ll see she will--they always does here. Miss Sairah herself was as puny a bit of a child as ever you set eyes on, and she’s a fine tall lass with a color like a rose--I will say that for her--now.” “And I think you said she was about my child’s age,” said the mother, with a certain wistful glance out of the window. “Perhaps she and my Pamela--But of course a young lady like that has plenty of friends. Pamela will never be tall--she’s done growing. She takes after her father’s side, you see,” the poor woman added, with a sigh, looking round once more to the sofa where her child lay. “And it ain’t long, perhaps, since you lost your good gentleman?” said Mrs. Swayne, curiosity giving a certain brevity to her speech. “He was in the army,” said the lodger, passing by the direct question, “and it’s a wandering sort of life. Now I’ve come back, all are gone that ever belonged to me, or so much as knew me. It feels dreary like. I don’t mind for myself, if I could but find some kind friends for my child.” “Don’t you fret,” said Mrs. Swayne, rising. “She’ll find friends, no fear; and its ridiklus to hear you talk like an old woman, and not a gray hair on your head--But I hear Swayne a-grumbling, Mrs. Preston. He’s no better nor an old washerwoman, that man isn’t, for his tea.”