"Surely, dear, he would never be so dishonourable! You must have put it somewhere yourself."
"But, Mummie, I know I didn't. And you said yourself that you saw it on the table."
"It's very mysterious," sighed Mrs. Reynolds. "We might ask your uncle next time he comes if he took it by mistake."
"He'd only deny it."
"Pamela, you misjudge him."
"I hate him, Mummie; he bullies us both."
"We're entirely dependent on him, remember. He gives us the whole of our little income, and pays your school bills. We mustn't quarrel with our bread and butter. What should we do if he were to turn us out?"
"I don't know. I sometimes think I'd rather be a crossing-sweeper than take his money. Oh, life's horrid, and I hate it all! I wish we'd stayed in Canada, and never come to England. Wait till I'm a little older, Mummie, and I'll get a post as teacher, and work for you. I wish I were twenty-one!"
"That's many years off, child, and in the meantime you've to get your education. You must be civil to your uncle, Pamela."
"I will, on the outside, but I can't help my feelings inside. They're boiling!" demurred Pamela, rather defiantly, scrubbing the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief, and settling down to her lesson books.