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any more, but just let her go, as Margaret suggests, Sophia.”

“How can you think of it, Eleanor The idea of Pamela—Pamela—in her position, as companion to that withered-up little Amelia Sidmouth! it’s—unbearable!”

Aunt Sophia positively snorted. Eleanor Wendell-Cooper, another cousin, was sorry for her, but sorrier still for Pamela, as she had seen her the day before, overwrought and inarticulate.

“It is ridiculous, of course, but honestly, I think you had better give your consent.”

“Her first season too!” wailed Aunt Sophia; “and the insane idea of accepting her travelling expenses from Amelia and not touching a penny of her own money! Madness!”

This, Aunt Sophia’s strongest argument, had undoubtedly come home to Pamela with a shock. What a queer thing money was, and how horrible, really. She set her teeth. It did seem as if she were accepting something very like charity from Miss Sidmouth. How extraordinary!

“But I can be of use to her,” she thought anxiously. “I can do any sewing she wants, and anyone can discover the best way to pack. I daresay I could even manage to do her hair. I must do all the things that a companion ought to do, and anyway”—very firmly—“I had rather accept charity from Miss Sidmouth than spend another penny of money that has never been mine. Oh, I feel as if I could never rest till I have earned enough to pay back all I have spent all these years!”

Nevertheless, when Aunt Sophia’s consent was finally wrung from her, it was on condition that Pamela took with her a cheque, “in case of emergencies,” Uncle Roger told her. Pamela received it in silence, resolved never to cash it, no matter what might happen, and so set sail at last,