“But tell me, Mrs. Jervis, the whole you owe in the world; and you and I will contrive, with justice to our best friend, to do all we can to make you quite easy; for, at your time of life, I cannot bear that you shall have any thing to disturb you, which I can remove, and so, my dear Mrs. Jervis, let me know all.  I know your debts (dear, just, good woman, as you are!) like David’s sins, are ever before you:  so come,” putting my hand in her pocket, “let me be a friendly pick-pocket; let me take out your memorandum-book, and we will see how all matters stand, and what can be done.  Come, I see you are too much moved; your worthy heart is too much affected” (pulling out her book, which she always had about her); “I will go to my closet, and return presently.”

So I left her, to recover her spirits, and retired with the good woman’s book to my closet.

Your dear brother stepping into the parlour just after I had gone out, “Where’s your lady, Mrs. Jervis?” said he.  And being told, came up to me:—­“What ails the good woman below, my dear?” said he:  “I hope you and she have had no words?”

“No, indeed, Sir,” answered I.  “If we had, I am sure it would have been my fault:  but I have picked her pocket of her memorandum-book, in order to look into her private affairs, to see if I cannot, with justice to our common benefactor, make her as easy as you.  Sir, have made my other dear parents.”

“A blessing,” said he, “upon my charmer’s benevolent heart!—­I will leave every thing to your discretion, my dear.—­Do all the good you prudently can to your Mrs. Jervis.”

I clasped my bold arms about him, the starting tear testifying my gratitude.—­“Dearest Sir,” said I, “you affect me as much as I did Mrs. Jervis; and if any one but you had a right to ask, what ails your Pamela? as you do, what ails Mrs. Jervis?  I must say, I am hourly so much oppressed by your goodness, that there is hardly any bearing one’s own joy.”

He saluted me, and said, I was a dear obliging creature.  “But,” said he, “I came to tell you, that after dinner we’ll take a turn, if you please, to Lady Arthur’s:  she has a family of London friends for her guests, and begs I will prevail upon you to give her your company, and attend you myself, only to drink tea with her; for I have told her we are to have friends to sup with us.”

“I will attend you, Sir,” replied I, “most willingly; although I doubt I am to be made a shew of.”

“Something like it,” said he, “for she has promised them this favour.”

“I need not dress otherwise than I am?”

“No,” he was pleased to say, I was always what he wished me to be.

So he left me to my good works (those were his kind words) and I ran over Mrs. Jervis’s accounts, and found a balance drawn of all her matters in one leaf, and a thankful acknowledgment to God, for her master’s last bounty, which had enabled her to give satisfaction to others, and to do herself great pleasure, written underneath.