It was in the Easter holidays.

She was alone at Mannering with an old governess, while her father was in London.

The little wrinkled Frenchwoman watched her in silence, whenever she was allowed to see her.

Then when on the second morning there came a telegram from Chetworth, and Pamela tore it open, flying with it before she read it to the secrecy of her own room, the Frenchwoman smiled and sighed.

'Ca, c'est l'amour!' she said to herself, 'assurement c'est l'amour!' And when Pamela came down again, radiant as a young seraph, and ready to kiss the apple-red cheek of the Frenchwoman--the rarest concession!--Madame Guerin did not need to be told that Arthur Chicksands was safe and likely to be sound.
But the Frenchwoman's inference was premature.