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Sometimes the brown head was bowed on the window-sill while Pamela fought with her tears. Sometimes they would overflow and drop down upon the gaudy flowers she was working. The little outburst of misery over, she always reproached herself for weakness. Even if life was going to be something very different from what she had always expected, a drab and uneventful thing stretching on indefinitely, with nothing to colour it, still she was far better off, in all probability, than any one of the girls who passed below her window. She did not suppose she would ever be threatened with actual starvation, for instance, and by and by when Mr. Ste. Croix—no, Lord Trent—came back again and they saw she had been in the right, all the relations would be nice to her again, and find her something to do. But just now no one seemed to love her at all, and she did not believe there was anyone so lonely as Pamela Learmonth in all New York City. “Loneliness—there is nothing quite so dreadful or so hard to bear,” she thought drearily. And this was lesson number two.

The spirit of adventure which had called sometimes in her school-days had no allure for her now. She shrank from the bustling streets. She had never been out unattended in her life before, and any curious stare, any incivility terrified her. If this were freedom, it was very distasteful; to be sheltered and safe held far more charm. So most of her days were spent indoors, and that does not encourage a cheerful and healthy point of view.

It was a great relief when Miss Sidmouth announced at last that they would leave New York in two days’ time.

“Where are we going now?” Pamela asked. She hoped it was not another town—vain hope.

“To Philadelphia. We shall not stay more than a few days, I think, as they are not people I know very well, and I may not care for it. It is to a cousin of mine. He is married and has one little girl of four or five years.”