“Law!” said Mrs. Swayne, “and her own grandmother living in a poky bit of a place in Masterton, as every body knows--never brought out here for a breath of fresh air, nor none of them going a-nigh of her! To think how little folks is sensible when it’s themselves as is to blame!” “That’s what it is,” said the triumphant Betty. “When she said that, it was her conscience as spoke. She went as red as red, and stopped there and then. It was along of old Mrs. Fennell, poor old soul! Why ain’t she a-living out here, and her own flesh and blood to make her comfortable? It was on my lips to say, Law! Miss, there’s old Mrs. Fennell is older nor me.” “Fennell?” said Mrs. Preston; “I ought to know that name.” “It was her own mamma’s name,” said Betty, “and I’ve met wi’ them as seen the old lady with their own eyes. Hobson, the carrier, he goes and sees her regularly with game and things; but what’s game in comparison with your own flesh and blood?” “Perhaps the mother died young,” said Mrs. Preston with some anxiety--“that breaks the link, like. Fennell? I wonder what Fennells she belongs to. I once knew that name well. I wish the old lady was living here.” “You take my word, she’ll never live here,” said Mrs. Swayne. “She ain’t grand enough. Old grandmothers is in the way when young folks sets up for lords and ladies. And it ain’t that far to Masterton but you could go and see her. There’s Hobson, he knows; he’d take you safe, never fear.” Mrs. Preston shrunk back a little from the suggestion. “I’m not one to pay visits,” she said. “But I’ll say good-night to you all, now. I hope you’ll soon be better, Mr. Swayne. And, Betty, you should not be out-of-doors on such a cold night. My child will be dull, all by herself.” So saying, she left them; but she did not that moment return to Pamela. She went up stairs by herself in the dark, with her heart beating quick in her ears. “Fennell!” she was saying to herself--“I ought to know that name.” It was very dark on the road, and there was nothing visible from the window but the red glow from Betty’s lodge, where the door stood innocently open; but notwithstanding, Mrs. Preston went and looked out, as if the scene could have thrown any enlightenment upon her thoughts. She was excited about it, unimportant though the matter seemed. What if perhaps she might be on the trace of friends--people who would be good to Pamela? There was once a Fennell--Tom Fennell--who ages ago--No doubt he was dead and gone, with every body who had belonged to her far-off early life. But standing there in the darkness, pressing her withered cheek close to the window, as if there was something to be seen outside, it went through the old woman’s mind how, perhaps, if she had chosen Tom Fennell instead of the other one, things might have been different. If any life could ever have been real to the liver of it, surely her hard life, her many toils and sufferings, must have been such sure fact as to leave no room for fancy.