Page:The little blue devil (IA littlebluedevil00mackiala).pdf/237

blushed furiously. Should she tell Miss Sidmouth that she had actually met the real owner of Trent Stoke? The words refused to be uttered, somehow, and Miss Sidmouth was deep in her own affairs again.

“If we cut short our visit to the Powells—they are such old people, friends of my dear father’s, you know, so probably they will be just as pleased—old people do not really care for visitors—we ought to be able to catch a boat within three weeks from now. That will be very nice. Go and get a paper, my dear, and let us see what boat we can get.”

Pamela lay awake that night, trying to evolve a plan which would keep her away from England a little longer, but it seemed hopeless enough. Even if she had made friends over here who would be glad to keep her, she knew Aunt Sophia would never consent to her staying on alone. If only there were some relations in this country—why!—how was it she had never remembered before?—there was Uncle Markham Learmonth in California! Pamela sat bolt upright in bed, half inclined to get up there and then and write to him. But after a moment or two she lay down again and thought over the situation. What did she know of Uncle Markham? Very little really. He was not a popular topic of conversation—Aunt Sophia’s face generally assumed its coldest expression whenever Uncle Roger mentioned him. Pamela had never definitely connected him with California even. She only knew that he had a farm—or an orchard—or—something, somewhere sufficiently distant; but now she distinctly remembered that it certainly was California—Uncle Roger had talked about the country the last time a letter came. With a little effort she believed she could even recollect the name of the township, for Uncle Roger had read her extracts from his brother’s letter, since Aunt Sophia was so unsympathetic on the subject. Lincoln, or Linton? Linton—