dear pamela,

your letter was indeed a great trouble, and some comfort, to me and your poor mother. we are troubled, to be sure, for your good lady's death, who took such care of you, and gave you learning, and, for three or four years past, has always been giving you clothes and linen, and every thing that a gentlewoman need not be ashamed to appear in. but our chief trouble is, and indeed a very great one, for fear you should be brought to anything dishonest or wicked, by being set so above yourself. every body talks how you have come on, and what a genteel girl you are; and some say you are very pretty; and, indeed, six months since, when i saw you last, i should have thought so myself, if you was not our child. but what avails all this, if you are to be ruined and undone!—indeed, my dear pamela, we begin to be in great fear for you; for what signify all the riches in the world, with a bad conscience, and to be dishonest! we are, 'tis true, very poor, and find it hard enough to live; though once, as you know, it was better with us. but we would sooner live upon the water, and, if possible, the clay of the ditches i contentedly dig, than live better at the price of our child's ruin.

i hope the good 'squire has no design: but when he has given you so much money, and speaks so kindly to you, and praises your coming on; and, oh, that fatal word! that he would be kind to you, if you would do as you should do, almost kills us with fears.

i have spoken to good old widow mumford about it, who, you know, has formerly lived in good families; and she puts us in some comfort; for she says it is not unusual, when a lady dies, to give what she has about her person to her waiting-maid, and to such as sit up with her in her illness. but, then, why should he smile so kindly upon you? why should he take such a poor girl as you by the hand, as your letter says he has done twice? why should he stoop to read your letter to us; and commend your writing and spelling? and why should he give you leave to read his mother's books?—indeed, indeed, my dearest child, our hearts ache for you; and then you seem so full of joy at his goodness, so taken with his kind expressions, (which, truly, are very great favours, if he means well) that we fear—yes, my dear child, we fear—you should be too grateful,—and reward him with that jewel, your virtue, which no riches, nor favour, nor any thing in this life, can make up to you.

i, too, have written a long letter, but will say one thing more; and that is, that, in the midst of our poverty and misfortunes, we have trusted in god's goodness, and been honest, and doubt not to be happy hereafter, if we continue to be good, though our lot is hard here; but the loss of our dear child's virtue would be a grief that we could not bear, and would bring our grey hairs to the grave at once.

if, then, you love us, if you wish for god's blessing, and your own future happiness, we both charge you to stand upon your guard: and, if you find the least attempt made upon your virtue, be sure you leave every thing behind you, and come away to us; for we had rather see you all covered with rags, and even follow you to the churchyard, than have it said, a child of ours preferred any worldly conveniences to her virtue.

we accept kindly your dutiful present; but, till we are out of pain, cannot make use of it, for fear we should partake of the price of our poor daughter's shame: so have laid it up in a rag among the thatch, over the window, for a while, lest we should be robbed. with our blessings, and our hearty prayers for you, we remain,

your careful, but loving father and mother,

john and elizabeth andrews.