She wasn't content with crying, she began to sob hysterically. She had gone through a great deal that day, and her nerves were shaken. Maria got up from the floor and came over to her. She put her on the couch, and took off her hat, and stroked her hair back, and soothed her, but Pamela took no notice of her; she only sat tearing up her papers. 'You would do the same if you were in my place,' Lucy sobbed; 'you would be afraid to venture. What girl in her senses wouldn't?' Miss Stubbs smiled. 'I know some girls who wouldn't,' she said. She was very angry with Lucy--angry and impatient; but that did not account for the hard break in her voice. 'Hush!' Pamela exclaimed harshly; 'it is not her fault she has so small a soul.' 'I am sure you would not do otherwise,' Lucy sobbed, not heeding the interruption. 'You would be afraid to--to marry him. Oh! who _could_ marry him?' Maria's eyes were shining, and the hand that was stroking Lucy's hair trembled; but Pamela's face was hard and stony as she sat tearing up her papers, and her thin lips were pressed tight together. 'You would never be safe,' Lucy went on, defending herself. 'You would never know what he would do. He might break out at any time--he might kill himself, he might kill you!' The picture was too appalling, and Lucy subsided into a fresh passion of tears. 'Oh, I could never run the risk!' she said with a shiver; 'I should never be safe!' 'Not if you loved him?' Pamela asked the question in a low voice--low and vibrating with passion. She had not intended to give a voice to her thoughts. She would have given the world to have recalled the words after she had spoken. 'No,' Lucy exclaimed passionately; 'not even if I loved him!' 'Oh, you poor thing!' said Maria Stubbs, with her eyes flashing, and her freckled face all aglow with a strange fire. 'Let her alone,' Pamela said wearily--'let her alone. How should she do otherwise? It is not her fault that she has not a large soul. Let the poor little thing alone. She can only act according to her lights. Let her alone.' They let her alone--at least, they said good-bye to her in a strained, unemotional way. They didn't shed a single tear in that parting. Maria Stubbs kissed her on both cheeks, and told her to write to her and say how the Master of St. Benedict's was. She didn't say a word about her lover. Pamela kissed her on one cheek--at least, she made a peck at her, and said some cold, formal words of farewell, and went wearily back to tearing up her papers. When the good-byes were said, the poor thing with a small soul crept humbly down the stairs. Everybody cannot be made on such large lines as Pamela Gwatkin. CHAPTER XXIV. THE VICARAGE GATE.