'Oh, I daresay you don't mean it, but you have--yes, you have a way of getting everybody's attention. Of course you're awfully clever--much cleverer than I am--or Pamela. But still it--it isn't pleasant. I know Pamela felt it dreadfully--being cut out with people she likes--people she cares about--and who--who might care for her--like Arthur Chicksands. I believe--yes, I do believe--though she never told me--that's why she went to London.' Elizabeth rose from her knees. For a moment she was struck dumb. And when at last she spoke it was only to repeat the name Mrs. Gaddesden had mentioned in utter bewilderment. 'Captain Chicksands! What can you mean?' 'Why, of course girls can't hold their own with older women when the older women are so charming and clever--and all that'--cried Mrs. Gaddesden, trying desperately to justify herself--'but I've been awfully sorry for Pamela! Very likely it's not your fault--you couldn't know, I daresay!' 'No, indeed, I didn't know!' said Elizabeth, in a low voice, 'and I can't understand now what you mean.' 'Don't you remember the day Arthur Chicksands spent here just before Desmond went? Don't you remember how he talked to you all the afternoon about the woods? Well, _I_ saw Pamela's face as she was sitting behind you.' Mrs. Gaddesden raised a triumphant though tear-stained countenance. She was avenging not only her father's latest slight, but a long series of grievances--small and great--connected with Elizabeth's position in the house. And the Squire's farewell to her had turned even her grief to gall. 'If Pamela was hurt, I was a most innocent cause!' said Elizabeth at last, indignantly. 'And if you or any one else had given me the smallest hint--' 'How could we?' was the rather sulky reply. 'Pamela, of course, never said a word--to me. But I rather think she did say something to Desmond.' 'Desmond!' cried Elizabeth under her breath. She turned slowly, and went away, leaving Mrs. Gaddesden panting and a little scared at what she had done. Elizabeth went back to the library, where there was much to put in order. She forced herself to tidy the Squire's table, and to write a business letter or two. But when that was done she dropped her face in her hands, and shed a few very bitter tears. She seemed to herself to have failed miserably. In truth, her heart clung to all these people. She soon attached herself to those with whom she lived, and was but little critical of them. The warm, maternal temper which went with her shrewd brain seemed to need perpetually objects on which to spend itself. She could have loved the twins dearly had they let her, and day by day, in the absence of the mother, she had been accustomed to nurse, she had even positively enjoyed 'petting' Mrs. Gaddesden, holding her wool for her, seeing to her hot-water bottles, and her breakfast in bed.