'Is there anything you could think of that would amuse you, my dear?'

'If I might—' Gladys began and paused.

'Pray, go on, do not be afraid to ask.'

'If I might only make up that cap for you, ma'am, I should be so proud. I used to make caps at home.'

Mrs Prothero was manufacturing a cap for herself, and had a certain womanly fear as to how it would turn out, if transferred to other fingers; but she did not like to refuse the request, so she resigned it into the thin hands of Gladys. She was almost immediately called away, and did not return for some hours. When she again visited her invalid she found her quite excited with her work that she had just completed.

'Oh, what a pretty cap!' said Mrs Prothero, quite astonished at the taste displayed. 'I must just run and show it to Netta—I am so much obliged to you.'

Mrs Prothero left the room and soon returned, followed by her daughter.

'Can you trim bonnets as well as make caps?' asked Netta, forgetful of infection when her personal interest was involved.

'Yes, miss, a little,' replied Gladys modestly.

'I wish you would trim mine for me to-morrow.'

'Oh, thank you, miss! If you will only let me try I shall be so grateful.'

'She does not seem like a beggar after all,' thought Netta. 'Who taught you to work so nicely?' she said aloud.

'I was apprenticed to a mantua-maker and milliner for six months, miss, and after that I worked for the neighbours.'

'How could you work for them, when they are all rags and tatters?'

'There were some farmers' wives, miss,' said Gladys, colouring slightly, 'and the clergyman's family, and the steward's—I used to work for them.'

'Then how came you here?'

'People couldn't work, or pay for work, miss, when every one was starvin' around them.'

Mrs Prothero looked at Netta reproachfully. The girl was not really hard-hearted, so she changed the subject.

'I daresay you can knit and mark samplers?' she said.

'Yes, miss, mother taught us to do that at school.'

'I think, Netta,' interrupted Mrs Prothero, 'that she must go to bed now. She looks tired, and has been up long enough.'

'What a fuss mother makes about the girl,' muttered Netta as she left the room.

The following day the bonnet was tastily trimmed under Netta's superintendence, and work enough hunted up to employ Gladys for a month at least. Netta even found an old cotton gown, which she presented to her in return for her labours. It was not long enough, but Gladys thought she might be able to lengthen it.

Whilst her convalescence and Netta's needlework were thus progressing, there was an arrival at the farm. One evening the family were assembled in the large hall, their usual sitting-room. Mr Prothero was reading the newspaper at a small round table, with an especial candle to himself. His worthy wife was mending or making shirts. At another round table, not very far off, Netta had some work in her hands, and one of Captain Marryat's novels open before her.

'Why don't you do your work instead of reading those trashy stories, Netta?' suddenly exclaimed Mr Prothero.

'I am working, father,' said Netta.

'Pretty working sure enough. What nonsense have you got reading now?'

'Peter Simple, father, oh it is so funny.'

'Ah! it was that stupid stuff, and 'The Pilot,' and 'The Spy,' and I don't know what else, that sent Owen off to sea. I suppose it's there you learn all your nonsense. I wish you would read the cookery book, and help your mother to take care of the house and dairy, instead of doing what's no good in the world.'

A loud knocking at the door interrupted a rather pert reply.

'Who on earth is that at this time of night?' exclaimed the farmer, throwing down his paper.

'Shanno,' called Mrs Prothero into the passage, 'ask who it is before you open the door.'

'It's no great things,' suggested Netta, 'for they're knocking with a stick, and not with the knocker.'

'Name o' goodness, what's the row?' said the farmer.

'Who's there?' demanded Shanno, in the passage.

The answer did not reach the hall, but Shanno came rushing in, 'It's them Irishers again, master, upon my deet, they do be here for ever.'

'Give me my stick!' exclaimed Mr Prothero, 'if I don't give them a lesson my name isn't David.'

He seized a stick and went into the passage, followed by his wife, murmuring, 'Oh, David, bach,' and by Netta as far as the door, from which she peeped down the passage.

'Who's there?' roared the farmer in a voice of thunder.

'May it please yer honour, I'm cowld and hungry. Long life to yer honour and her leddyship, if yell only give the loan o' yer barn, or maybe yer loft, or—'

'I'll show you the way to my barn, you idle, good-for-nothing scamp,' cried Mr Prothero, opening the door, and levelling a blow with his stick into the moonlight, that must infallibly have knocked down any one less agile than the man for whom it was intended. As it was, the unwelcome visitor jumped aside, whilst the portly farmer tripped himself up by his own impetuosity, and fell upon the threshold. Mrs Prothero and Netta screamed, and Shanno took hold of the beggar's arm, to prevent his escape. But the beggar had pulled Mr Prothero up, and was beginning to sympathise with him in broad brogue, when that valiant anti-Irishman got hold of his stick again, and began to belabour the unoffending party's back most manfully.

'Enough's as good as a faist, yer honour,' cried the stranger, skipping from side to side, and evading the blows very skilfully; 'pon my sowl, yer honour 'ud do for a fair or a wake. 'Tis madam as has the heart an' the conscience for the poor Irish, an' miss, too, asthore!'

The impudent fellow ran round to where Netta stood, who, in terror, went into the house, followed by the man, and after him, the rest in full hue and cry.

'Tin thousand pardons, miss,' said the man, taking off his hat and confronting Netta.

'Owen! Owen!' screamed Netta. 'For shame upon you, you naughty boy,' and therewith Netta and the unexpected guest were hugging one another, most lovingly.

''Tis the mother will give the poor Irisher a lodgin' and a drop o' the cratur,' cried that mother's well-beloved eldest born almost catching her up in his arms, and smothering her with kisses. 'And the masther isn't so hard-hearted as he looks,' he added, shaking the astonished farmer by the hand.

'Owen! oughtn't you to be ashamed of yourself?' cried the farmer, laughing aloud, and rubbing his right leg.

'Not kilt intirely, yer honour! didn't I take you all in, that's all!'

'Where did you come from? How did you come? When did you leave your ship?' were the questions reiterated on all sides of the welcome guest.

'I'll tell you all that to-morrow. At present I am dying of cowld and hunger, and haven't broke me fast since morning. Let me show you how the locker stands.'

Owen emptied his pockets, and from a corner of one of them turned out a solitary halfpenny.

'I shouldn't have had that if old Nanny Cwmgwyn hadn't given it to me just now. But I'll tell you my story to-morrow in character.'

'Not an improved one anyhow,' said Mr Prothero with a gathering frown.

'Don't lecture to-night, Datta, bach; you shall have an hour on purpose to-morrow, when I promise to listen to edification. 'Pon my word it is pleasant to be at home again. How I long to sleep in my comfortable bed once more.'

Poor Mrs Prothero's countenance fell, and Netta looked malicious.

'Not likely to sleep there to-night, boy,' said the farmer; 'mother has got visitors.'

'Visitors!' exclaimed Owen, 'and gone to bed already! what sleepy people.'

'Some of your friends of the cowld and hungry sort,' said the farmer.

'Not mother's old friends, and my relations, the Irish beggars?'

'Singular number, and a young lady!' said the farmer with a sneer and a puff of the tobacco with which he was beginning to solace himself, at the sight of the bread and cheese that were appearing.

'A poor girl, Owen, who was taken ill,' said Mrs Prothero.

'I understand it all, mother; never mind, she's welcome for once, provided I get a good bed, but to-morrow she must turn out.'

'Very well, my dear,' said Mrs Prothero submissively; for Owen, though a prodigal, was the eldest son, and generally had his own way.

'Now don't be frightened at my appetite,' said Owen, sitting down to cold meat and strong ale.

'Bless you and your appetite,' said Mrs Prothero, kissing his forehead; upon which he jumped up again, and hugged her with all his heart.

'Now, Netta, let us go and see about the sheets,' said Mrs Prothero, smoothing her dress.

The mother and daughter left the room, and were not long in preparing the best bedroom for Owen. This done, they hastened back to the hall, where they found diminished ham and increased smoke, Owen having lighted a short pipe, and taken to smoking with his father, over a large jug of ale.

'We must have your adventures to-night, Owen,' cried Netta, as she entered, 'and you must tell us why you came home so very shabby. I suppose you have been wrecked on a desert island.'

'To be sure,' said Owen, laying down the pipe. 'But I must go out and find my wardrobe, and all my valuables, that my hospitable Daddy there caused me to throw down, when he gave me such a warm welcome.'

Owen disappeared, but soon returned with a box in his hands, apparently of some weight, and a bundle slung across his shoulder, suspended on a walking stick. Putting down the box he began to sing,—

'A handkerchief held all the treasure I had.'

whilst he flourished his walking-stick and bundle over his mother's head. When he had finished his song, he put down his bundle and went to the box.

'I have shown you the size of my wardrobe, now allow me to show off the rest of my fortune and stock in trade. Father, you shall have the first peep. Let me put my box on the table, and the light—so. Now, stoop, so—look through that glass, so—and—have you got the right focus? Yes!—To the right, you beholds the gallant 'ero, Lord Nelson, him as lost his harm, a just fallin' in the harms of Capen 'Ardy and Victory.—To the left—but first his lordship is a singin' "England expects every man to do his dooty." To the left—'

'Well, if that isn't as pretty a picture and as much like life as anything I ever saw,' said Mr Prothero, interrupting the showman. 'Come here, mother; Netta, look here.'

Mrs Prothero glanced into the box, which was nothing more nor less than a penny peep-show, and Owen began again.

'To the right you beholds,' when Netta, impatient, looked through a second glass, and exclaimed in ecstasy, 'Where did you get this, Owen?'

In answer, the scene shifted, and Owen recommenced.

'Here you beholds Lisbon, that wast city, or rayther what wos Lisbon after the great earthquake. See the ruins all around, and the women and children a screamin'; and the priests a-prayin'—those men in robes is priests, papishers, like them Irish beggars.'

'Hush, Owen,' interrupted Mrs Prothero. 'Look, father, do look here!'

While Mr Prothero and Netta gazed admiringly, Mrs Prothero was off and returned with Shanno, Mal, and Tom the boy, who were all in a broad grin of delight at the arrival of their prime favourite, Owen.

He, meanwhile, is in his element; begins with Lord Nelson again, and makes the whole party take turns. Then he goes to Lisbon; afterwards he has The Queen of the Cannibal Islands; The Great Fire of London; a portrait large as life of the immense fat man Daniel Lambert, at sight of which the servants all exclaim 'Ach!' and a variety of other splendid designs, which we decline to enumerate. Suffice it to say that they all draw forth the approving commendations of the spectators, from Mr Prothero, master, to Tom, serving-lad.

When the peep-show has been duly exhibited, Netta again demands her brother's history, and a particular account of how he procured the show.

'Oh! there is not much to tell,' says Owen, 'and I won't tell that unless father promises to keep his lecture till to-morrow. I hate a sermon late at night, but don't so much mind it in the morning. Don't look so serious, mother; I don't mean a clerical preachment. Do you promise, father?'

'Well, there, as you like,' said Mr Prothero, laughing? 'but I wish you hadn't made me break my shin.'

'Here's a patch of diaculum, father. I hope you have not really hurt yourself?'

'No, wild goose. Now, let's have the story.'

'Well, here goes. Since this time twelvemonth I have been a voyage to Australia and back: seen Sydney and Botany Bay, and my brethren the convicts; done a little in the mercantile way: speculated in gin and 'baccy on my own account, and helped the captain. Came home as first mate of the 'Fair Weather,' and had enough of tailoring in the worst voyage I ever made. We were almost wrecked more than once, and almost starved for the last month, owing to the time the leaky old hulk took in the voyage. When we landed in Plymouth we had a spree, as you may suppose, and soon spent most of our money. I and a messmate were to travel together as far as Swansea, so we just saved money enough to pay our way, and enjoyed ourselves with the rest; but, as ill luck would have it, we fell in with a poor Welsh woman, who had come to Plymouth in the hope of meeting her husband, and being disappointed, and having spent all her money, she didn't know how to get back to her home again. Of course we couldn't leave a fellow-countrywoman in distress, so we gave her what we had: enough to pay her journey home, and a few shillings over. We then sold some of our clothes, and stumbling upon a man with this old box in his arms, we bargained with him, and bought it for twelve shillings. He wanted a pound, but we beat him down.

'Having thus a fortune in our possession we set out with our peep-show, and thought of getting interest for our money. We have been about three weeks journeying from place to place; and I assure you we have seen a good deal of life. We unfortunately spent the interest of our fortune as it came in; but, as you will perceive, I have brought the whole capital home with me. When we entered a town on a fair or market-day, we made a great deal of money, but then the temptations to spend were all the greater. I used to have all the labour of the imagination, for my friend Jack Jenkins had not the gift of eloquence; so we agreed that I should be showman, and he porter—a division of work that we thought quite fair. When we arrived at Swansea I gave him all the money we had in hand, and he resigned the peep-show to me, and so we parted company; he to go to his friends in Glamorganshire, I to come on here.

'I had a rare lark on my way home. I went to uncle's, and finding aunt in the garden, slouched my hat over my face, and began my story. She ordered me off the premises instantly as a vagrant. I went round to the back door and got a penny a-piece from the servants, who were quite delighted. Then I met uncle, and telling him that I had a wonderful box of antiques to exhibit, he gave me sixpence, and with great curiosity poked his proboscis against the glass. It was worth something to see him. I at once put a picture of Stonehenge, and afterwards one of Herculaneum into the box, that I had bought on purpose for his benefit. I went through the history of the Druids, and managed a touch of Garn Goch and the Welsh castles with a strong and masterly nasal, that so delighted the worthy vicar, that he actually invited me in to see his museum. I excused myself by saying that my wife was waiting for me—mother, that was my only fib, I assure you—and hastened away, lest in his delight at finding an itinerant archaeologist, he should ask my wife to see his museum as well. The rest of my adventures you had the honour and glory of sharing, so I must beg to say they are at an end. And now I am really and truly and soberly come to settle at home for the remainder of my days, and to become a farmer in good earnest if father will take me into partnership. The two things I like best in the world are, the rolling sea by moonlight and a field of golden corn in broad sunshine, of a fine day in autumn.'

'Oh, you naughty boy!' cried Netta, as Owen ended his story.

'A fine sturdy farmer you would make,' said Mr Prothero, trying to stifle a very hearty fit of laughter, that burst out at last in spite of himself. 'I'm glad you took in brother Jonathan, or he'd have had the laugh against me.'

Mrs Prothero had a tear in her eye as she smiled sadly, and shook her head at the darling son who had caused her nothing but love and grief since he was born; but the tear was soon kissed away, and the smile turned into a cheerful one by that son's merry lips.



CHAPTER XII.

THE SEMPSTRESS.

Owen Prothero, like his sister Netta, had been very much spoilt by his father during his childhood and boyhood. Indeed it would have been difficult not to have spoilt him. Handsome in person, and frank in manners, he was a general favourite. His uncle, the vicar, quite idolised him, and would have lavished a fortune on his education had he been of a studious nature. His mother, alone, conscious of his many faults, strove to correct them, and to counterbalance the undue admiration he received on all sides, by impartial justice in her praises and reproofs.

But we have not much to do with his boyhood, which was wild and untameable; beyond the fact that, when sent by his good uncle to Rugby with a view to his becoming a clergyman, he resolutely declared his intention of going to sea, and ran away from school to effect his purpose. He was captured, however by the masters, and a sharp look-out kept upon him for the future, which prevented further escapades.

He did not make brilliant progress in his studies, though he was clever enough, and accordingly his aunt persuaded her vicar to adopt her favourite nephew, Rowland, in his stead, and to let Owen go a voyage or two in a merchant vessel, to cure him of his love for a seafaring life.

It was Mr Prothero's wish to have one of his two sons a farmer, he did not much care which, so it was with some difficulty that Aunt Jonathan induced him to listen to her proposal of making a clergyman of Rowland. He yielded at last, however, in the hope that when Owen had had enough of the sea, he would come and settle at home, since, next to this, his favourite hobby, he professed to like farming.

Owen was about fifteen when he first went to sea—he was just seven-and-twenty when he came home with the peep-show. During the intermediate twelve years he had been all over the world: not merely as a sailor, but as an adventurer, traveller, speculator, merchant, and wandering Jack-of-all trades. As quickly as he made money, so he lost it, spent it, or gave it away; and when he had no other resource, he worked as a common sailor, or labourer, until some lucky chance opened a passage for some fresh excitement. There is this to be said in his favour. During this long period he was never chargeable to his father in any way. If he got into difficulties, he got out of them pretty easily: if he was in want of bread, which had been frequently the case, his friends at home knew nothing of it. Beyond the regular new outfit, in the way of clothes, that his mother made for him each time that he returned home, he had never had anything from his parents, and resolutely refused it if offered. Always cheerful, hopeful, in high spirits, open as the day, affectionate, and attractive, he was a welcome guest wherever he went. Did he come home in rags, or as now, with a peep-show in his arms, or as once before, with a hurdy-gurdy and monkey, all his old friends made merry, and gave parties in his honour. And whatever the state of his wardrobe or exchequer, he was sure to be in the fields the following day, reaping, hay-making, ploughing, sowing, or even milking, as either of these, or similar avocations, came in his way. Nobody could be angry with him, and his father's lectures, and his brother's reasonings all melted away before the row of white teeth that he was for ever displaying in his joyous laughter.

Of middle height, athletic, sunburnt—with hands almost as brown as his merry brown eyes—with black, long, curly hair, a bushy beard, and plenty of whiskers, a bronze neck from which, in sailor fashion, the blue and white shirt-collar receded—and a broad forehead, showing all kinds of bumps, particularly those of locality over the bushy black eyebrows—Owen Prothero was as fine a type of an English sailor as could be found the broad seas over.

He was in the habit of falling desperately in love with at least one out of every five or six girls that came in his way, and of making frightful havoc in the hearts of females of all ranks and ages. Netta's general inquiry was,—'Well, Owen, who is the last new love?' to which Owen would gravely reply, by a recapitulation of the charms of some fair damsel on whom his affections would be for ever fixed, could he only afford to marry. All his beauties had bright eyes, bright complexions, mirthful smiles, and were very 'jolly,' which seemed to be the word including all that was necessary to make a woman charming in his eyes.

'So, Netta, Howel has come into a fine fortune!' he began one morning, when he and his sister were alone together. 'I suppose he won't think of little cousin Netta now?'

'Oh! indeed,' was Netta's reply with a toss of the head.

'I wish he was here now. He is a fine fellow in his way. I do like Howel.'

'I knew you would say so,' exclaimed Netta. 'You are a kind, dear brother. They are all turned against him, even mother, who can take in the scum of the earth, and make much of a wretched Irish beggar, and will not ask Howel here, who is a gentleman,'

'Oh! oh! that's the way the wind blows. So you do not forget cousin Howel, Miss Netta.'

'No, I assure you; and I won't forget him, that's more.'

'Bravo! Netta. I admire a girl of spirit. But, perhaps now he is so rich he will not think of you.'

'I suppose that depends upon whether I choose to think of him. They say he is coming down soon, and that he will be the grandest man in the county.'

What Netta had heard rumoured came to pass in due time, Mr Howel Jenkins did come from London, and established himself in the best hotel of his native town, throwing out hints as to the probability of his taking a certain beautiful park in the neighbourhood. He was soon supplied with the best horses, dogs, and general appointments of any man in the county; and being really clever, handsome, and sufficiently gentleman like, had made his way into society that had hitherto been closed to him. Like Prince Hal, he eschewed most of his former companions and appeared to be beginning life anew, in a new world. The country rang with rumours of his enormous wealth, which, considerable as it was, report nearly doubled. Indeed he himself scarcely knew what he was worth, as he was continually finding memorandums of moneys out at high interest, of which his father had not chosen to speak to Rowland, but which his carefully secreted books and papers proved, as well as the knowledge of Mr Rice Rice, who had been his attorney.

In the course of the autumn the Irish girl was quite convalescent and, although not strong, had recovered from the fever, and was regaining some degree of health. As she was such a clever sempstress, even Netta did not object to a proposal made by Mrs Prothero, that she should remain as a work-girl, at least until Owen's wardrobe was in a decent condition; and she was accordingly installed in a small room, half lumber-room, half work-room, as shirt-maker in ordinary to the son and heir. He was restored to his own bedroom, and, together, with his father kept at a distance from the bone of contention.

However, adverse elements cannot always be kept apart, and one day when Mrs Prothero was sitting stitching wrist-bands with Gladys, her better half made his appearance suddenly in the room.

'Mother, I have been hunting you out all over the house,' he exclaimed? 'I have torn the sleeve of my coat from top to bottom in that confounded hedge.'

As he took off his coat and displayed the tear, he perceived Gladys, who had risen from her work, and curtseyed very timidly and profoundly. Mr Prothero had almost forgotten the Irish beggar, and certainly did not suppose the tidy-looking, pale, tall girl before him to be her.

'Oh, young 'ooman, I daresay you can do this job for me. You've got a new manty-maker, mother; where's Jane Morris, name o' goodness?'

'We're only making shirts for Owen, father,' replied the wife meekly, dreading an outburst.

Gladys took up the coat and was instantly engaged in mending it, whilst Mr Prothero produced a letter just received from Rowland.

'There, my dear, now you ought to be satisfied, and I am sure Mrs Jonathan will be as proud as Punch. Rowland has been ordained by the Bishop of London himself, and "passed a very good examination," or whatever they call it. He has taken lodgings up in London, and preached his first sermon in a great church that 'ould hold three of ours. He has dined with the rector, and been to call on Sir Philip Payne Perry,—the three green peas as Owen calls him—and I wonder what even Mrs Jonathan 'ould desire more?'

Mrs Prothero read, her dear son's letter with tears in her eyes, the sudden sight of which caused sympathetic tears to flow from the eyes of the poor work-girl, much to the surprise of Mr Prothero, who chanced to look round to see whether his coat was finished.

'Hang the 'oomen,' he muttered to himself, 'they can't read a bit of a letter without blubbing. How long will that take you to do?—what's your name?'

'Gladys, if you please, sir,' said Gladys, looking up from her work. 'I shall have finished it directly, sir.'

'Gladys? Gladys what?' asked Mr Prothero.

'Gladys O'Grady, sir,' was the reply whilst the mending was coming to a close.

'Where on earth did you pick up such names as that?'

'One was my mother's, and the other my father's, sir,' said Gladys, rising and presenting the coat with a deep curtsey.

Mrs Prothero was absorbed in her letter.

'Name o' goodness where did your father get such a name? and where do you live?'

The girl bent her head over the coat she held in her hand, and her tears fell upon it.

'There, never mind? give me my coat. Thank you. Why, Lewis the tailor 'ouldn't 'a mended it better. Why, girl, where did you learn tailoring?'

'Mother taught me to mend everything, sir.'

'There then, take you that old hat and see if you can make as good a job of sewing on the brim as you done of the coat. Mother, come you here, I want to speak to you.'

Mr Prothero left the room, and Mrs Prothero followed.

'Who's that girl, mother? I never saw her before,' were his first words in the passage, whilst pulling to the coat that he had begun to put on in the work-room.

'Why, David, you see—it is—there now, don't be angry.'

'Angry! what for? Hasn't she mended my coat capital, and isn't she as modest looking a young 'ooman as I ever saw?'

'She is very delicate, but she works night and day. Indeed, she does more in a day than most girls in a week Owen wanted some shirts, you see—she made that cap you admired so much, and that new gown of Netta's; and has more than paid for—'

'But who the deuce is she?'

'There now, don't be angry, David. 'Tis that poor Irish girl that was so ill of the fever.'

'I'll never believe she's Irish as long as I live—she's too pretty and tidy and delicate and fair. She's no more Irish than I am, mother, and you've been taken in.'

'She is Welsh on the mother's side. But are you very angry, David?'

'No, I don't mind her doing a little work in an honest way like that. I'm not such a fool. When she has done the work send her off, that's all. Poor soul! she does look as if she had been dead and buried and come to life again. Mother, you're a good 'ooman, and God bless you!'

Mrs Prothero looked up into her husband's face with an expression of such love and joy as must have delighted a much harder heart than that spouse possessed. Don't laugh, gentle reader, at the conjugal embrace of that middle-aged pair, which seals the quarrel about the Irish girl; but believe me, there is more real sentiment in it than in most of the love-scenes you may have read about.

Mrs Prothero took advantage of her husband's approval of Gladys's exterior to send her out into the garden in the evening to breathe the air, and afterwards into the fields. The girl's strength gradually returned, but with it there appeared to be no return of youth or hope. A settled melancholy was in her countenance and demeanour; and when Netta rallied her on being so sad and silent, her reply was, 'Oh, miss, there is no more joy or happiness for me in this world! all I love have left it, and I am but a lonely wanderer and an outcast!'

When the shirts were finished, it was time to think of her departure, for she had exhausted all the sewing-work of the house. Mrs Prothero could not bear to turn the friendless, homeless girl adrift on the world. She ventured upon the subject one day at dinner.

'What will become of her, David? And she so beautiful! I declare I think I never saw a prettier girl.'

'Well, mother, who will you call pretty next?' said Owen, who had seen her once or twice by chance. 'Why, she has no more colour in her face than this tablecloth, and I don't believe she has any eyes at all; at least, I never saw them; but I mean to try whether she has any some day, by making a frightful noise when she drops me that smart curtsey in passing.'

'I am sure we want hands badly enough in the wheat field, said Farmer Prothero. 'If the girl could pick up her crumbs a little by harvesting, you could keep her a while longer, and then send her off in search of her relations.'

'Thank you, David. I will ask her what she can do,' said Mrs Prothero.

'Not much in that way, I am pretty sure,' said Netta. 'How should those wretched Irish, who live on nothing but potatoes, know any thing about the wheat harvest?'

'Treue for you there, my girl,' said Mr Prothero, 'but I daresay mother will make believe that she knows something.

'Mother' found the object of their conversation that very evening in the wheat field, sitting under a tree, at work. She had sent her out for a walk, and this was her exercise. Owen and Netta were with their mother, and as they approached, Gladys rose, curtseyed, and was going away, when Owen made an unnatural kind of whistle, as if to frighten away some cows in the distance. Gladys started, and with a terrified face glanced at him. He found that she had very beautiful, violet eyes, with lashes so long and black, that when she looked to the earth again they made a strange contrast to her pale face.

'What sad, uncomfortable eyes,' thought Owen; 'I must have another glance at them by-and-by. If she had a colour she might be pretty, as mother says, but it makes one ill to look at her.'

'Do you think,' said Mrs Prothero, addressing Gladys, 'that you could manage to help in the harvest; My husband says he will employ you, if you can.'

'Oh, thank you, my lady! I would do my best, and if I could only stay here longer under any circumstances—I should—oh, be so thankful!'

This was said with much hesitation.

'Very well, then; if you will try to-morrow we shall be able to judge what you can do.'

'She don't look strong enough to bind the sheaves,' said Owen.

'I will try, sir, if you please,' said Gladys.

'What is the name of the friends you are seeking?' asked Owen with a glance at his sister.

'Jones, sir,' replied Gladys, again looking at Owen.

'Perhaps there is a David in the family?' asked Owen.

'I believe that my grandfather's name was David,' was the reply.

'Now, if you walk through Carmarthenshire, and just ask every one you meet if they know David Jones, I am sure you would find him. It is astonishing what a powerful name David Jones is. I know a Rev. David Jones very well? a clergyman too—'

'Oh! if you could only tell me where to find him. I would go anywhere for my poor mother's sake!'

The girl clasped her hands and looked imploringly at Owen. He was silenced by the appeal of the eyes he did not believe in. Mrs Prothero glanced at him reproachfully, and said,—

'It is such a common Welsh name that I am afraid it would be no guide to you, unless you would remember the place where he lived.'

'I daresay it began with Llan,' broke in Owen.

'I am almost sure it did,' said Gladys; 'but mother never liked to talk of the place,'

'What do you say, mother, to writing to the Rev. David Jones, Llan., etc., Carmarthenshire?'

Netta laughed aloud; she could not help it; whilst Gladys again looked upon the ground.

'Owen,' whispered Mrs Prothero, taking her son's arm and leading him away, 'what is a joke to you is death to her, remember that.'

'There, don't be angry, mother; I will help her to do her work to-morrow.'

'He was as good as his word, and the following day resolutely kept near the poor, timid girl, aiding her to bind up the full-eared corn, and carrying it himself for her to the mows, into which they were hastily forming the sheaves for fear of rain. He could not resist occasionally alluding to Mr David Jones, but receiving no encouragement to carry out the jest, and finding her as silent and shy as a frightened child, he gave up the subject, and with it all attempt at conversation. He declared afterwards that she worked like a slave, and knew all about harvesting as well as anybody, only she was not strong, and that she was the dullest Irish woman he ever saw in his life, since even the beggars had a bit of fun in them. Indeed he didn't believe her to be Irish, or credit a word of her story; but, as to beauty, he began to agree with his mother, for if she had only a colour she would be as pretty a girl, with as graceful a figure, as anybody need wish to see.

The farmer declared that she had well earned her supper; and that if mother thought she would do, she might keep her instead of Betty, after Hollantide; the said Betty having signified her intention of getting married at the matrimonial season of the year. Mrs Prothero said she would think it over, but she was afraid she was not strong enough for hard farm service. It was evident that Gladys had taken a step into the kind heart of the worthy farmer.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE WIDOW.

'Whose grand groom is that, half afraid to ride through the yard?' asked Mr Prothero, as he and his son Owen were standing by the big wheat-mow, awaiting the arrival of a load of corn.

'I'll go and see what he wants,' said Owen, and off he went.

He returned, bearing a note for his father.

'He says he is Mr Griffith Jenkins's groom, and waits for an answer. Howel doesn't do the thing by halves anyhow.'

'Mr Griffith Jackanapes!' said the farmer, breaking the seal of the note hastily, and reading it.

Owen watched his countenance assume an angry expression, and then heard him utter a very broad Welsh oath.

'Tell that feller there's no answer,' said Mr Prothero.

'What is it about father? you had better let mother see it first.'

'The impudent young ass! does he think I am to be taken in by all that gold and plush? He shall never have my consent, and you may tell him so, Owen.'

'Come into the house a minute, father, and let us see the note.'

They went into the house, the farmer giving an indignant grunt at the groom as he passed.

'Mother, come here!' he roared as he entered the parlour, followed by Owen.

The obedient wife left her kitchen and went to her husband.

'Read you it out loud, Owen.'

Owen read.

'SIR,—Being in a position to marry, and to marry any lady in the county, I think you need not be surprised at my now aspiring to the hand of your daughter, to whom I have been many years attached. I beg, therefore, to say that my object in writing to you is, to ask your permission to pay my addresses to her, and to make her my wife. My attorney will see to any arrangements you may require as regards settlements, which are matters of no importance to me,—I remain, sir, your obedient servant,

'HOWEL GRIFFITH JENKINS.'

'The impudent scoundrel!' said Mr Prothero.

'Well, father, I don't see—' began Owen.

'You don't see, sir, I daresay you don't. Wasn't he as near ruining you as possible! Didn't he teach you to gamble, and fleece you, and lead you into all kinds of mischief? Didn't I forbid him the house for it? Didn't he rob his own father, and make his mother miserable? Didn't he drink and keep company with the worst profligates of the country? Didn't he as good as rob me, sir, out of a ten-pound note when he was a bit of a boy, and when I found it out, called it a lark? Do you think a great fortune will all of a sudden change such a chap as that into an honest man? No, what's ill got is ill spent, and old Giffrey Jenkins's money 'ill never turn to good account. He that grinds the poor, and goes against scripture as a usurer, 'ill never find his son do well. Howel shall never have my consent to marry Netta, and there's an end of it.'

'But suppose they are determined,' said Mrs Prothero.

'Then I'll wash my hands of 'em for ever, and vow Netta's no girl of mine. Go you, Owen, and send off that fine yellar-band, sent to astonish me, and tell him I'll have nothing to do with his master nor him.'

'But, father, you must write!'

'Write! not I: but stop, I'll write. Bring the paper. Haven't you got any with a fine gloss, and coloured?'

'Now, David, bach, if you would only consider a little. I am really afraid of the consequences.'

'Now, mother, my mind's made up, and you won't wheedle me in this matter. So, here's the pen and ink,'

Mr Prothero sat down and wrote the following reply to Howel's note:—

'HOWEL,—You have had my answer before now, and you may have it again. When I know you're out-and-out a changed man, I may think differently; but I don't know it yet, so you shall not have my consent to marry Netta. One hundred pounds of steadiness and honesty is worth a hundred thousand pounds of gold. I wish you well, but if you was king of England you shouldn't have my girl as you are now.'—Yours to command, 'DAVID PROTHERO,'

'There, mother, there's my mind,' said Mr Prothero, giving the note to his wife.

'Well, David, I believe you are right, only Netta is so determined!'

'Determined, is she! Then I'll lock her up. Take that to yon yellar-band, Owen.'

Owen took the note to the servant

'Tell your master that I am coming to see him this evening,' he said, and soliloquised thus when the man was gone. 'Howel is a good fellow, I believe, only a little extravagant and gay. I must tell him not to be down-hearted about Netta. Why, the girl isn't worth such a bother? I never saw one that was yet. It would take a great deal of time and trouble to work me up into that kind of thing—and at least a dozen girls. Netta's very pretty, to be sure, but she has a will of her own, and so has Howel. I am sure they would soon fight. As to father, he is as obstinate as a mule. And Howel with such a mint of money! But I like father's pride, and I must say I reel proud of him for it. I would never give in just because a man has suddenly got a fortune.'

When Owen had arrived at this conclusion, he perceived Netta coming towards him.

'What did that servant want, Owen?' she asked when she came quite near? 'and what were those two notes about?'

'I dare say you know, Miss Netta. It is all over with you for this present. Howel has popped the question, and father has refused him.'

If Owen had ever been really in love, he would have spoken less abruptly on such a delicate subject, as he found, when he saw Netta turn pale, then red, then burst into tears and run away from him into the house.

He followed her, somewhat distressed, to the door of her bedroom. He knocked gently, but received no answer.

'Netta, let me in, I have something to say to you,'

No reply, but a passionate sobbing audible.

'Netta, dear Netta, I am so sorry for you. Let me in.'

He tried the door, but it was locked.

'Netta, if you don't let me in I'll go and fetch mother directly. One, two, three, and, now, open the door, I'm going. One, two, three, and away!'

He walked down the passage, and heard the door opened behind him.

'Owen, come here, I will let you in,'

'There's a good little sister.'

'Don't palaver me, sir,' burst forth Netta, as soon as her door was closed. 'You are all unfeeling, unnatural, cruel, selfish, hard-hearted heathens! You don't care for me or Howel any more than as if we were strangers. Father don't mind what he drives me to, and mother cares more for that Irish beggar than for me—I know she does. I did think you would be our friend, and now you are as stiff and unfeeling as Rowland. Seure you are,'

'Why, if I was a parson like Rowland, I'd marry you to-morrow.'

'Then, why don't you try to bring father round. You know he thinks more of you than of anybody else.'

'It's no use trying; nobody but mother has any influence with father, and she is not sure that 'tis right or good for you and Howel to marry.'

'She is cruel and unkind,' sobbed Netta; 'I don't believe any one really loves me but Howel,'

'Stick to that, Netta; 'I for one haven't a spark of affection for you. All father wants is to get rid of you, and that is why he is in such a hurry for you to make such a grand match!'

'Oh! indeed! he and all the rest of you are as jealous of Howel's good fortune as you can be,—you know you are. And you wouldn't like to see me a grand lady, grander than Miss Rice or Miss Nugent even. Won't I let them know I'm somebody, and not to be looked down upon any more, that's all!'

Hereupon Netta wiped her eyes, and walked up and down the room grandly, whilst Owen burst out laughing,

'I beg you to go out of, my room, Owen!' said Netta, stamping her foot and getting into a passion. 'One can't expect manners or sympathy from seafaring porcupines like you. Go away directly. Why, John James, the carter, is genteeler than a great coarse sailor such as you. Go you away, I say.'

'You ought to have said a seafaring dolphin or whale; they don't pay twopence a week to learn manners, like you land-lubbers. When you want me you may send for me.'

Owen went off very much offended, leaving Netta to cogitate upon the cruelty of her relations.

In the course of that afternoon, a very well-dressed woman, in the deepest of sables, was seen going down the road to the farm. She went round through the garden to the glass-door, disdaining the yard, knocked a great many times, to the great astonishment, of Shanno, and was at last admitted, as Mrs Griffith Jenkins. Shanno, all reverence at sight of the crape bonnet, crape veil, and widow's cap, ushered her into the parlour, feeling that a chasm now lay between her and the dame she had last seen in a high-crowned Welsh hat, striped flannel gown, and checked apron. Having duly dusted a chair with her skirts, Shanno glanced at Mrs Jenkins, and was about to leave the room, when Mrs Jenkins said,—

'Tell you your missus that I am coming on particular business and wish to speak with her in private. Here, stop you, Shanno, where is Miss Netta? I 'ouldn't mind giving you a shilling to tell her I was wanting to see her before I am seeing her mother.'

The shilling was offered, and received with much satisfaction and an intelligent grin, and in less than five minutes Netta was with Mrs Jenkins.

'Deet to goodness, and you do look very poorly, Netta, fach!' said that worthy, 'Howel was telling me to see you, and to be giving you this note. Give you another to Shanno before I will be going away, and I will give it to my Howel. Annwyl! you shall be seeing my Howel, now; how he do look a horseback. Beauty seure! he do say you will have a horse, too. There, go you? tell Shanno to tell your mother that I do be glad to see her, let her tak' care how she do refuse you again.'

Netta escaped with her note, and was soon succeeded by Mrs Prothero, who shook hands in a trembling, frightened way with Mrs Jenkins, who, on the contrary, strong in the consciousness of fortune and new apparel, was perfectly self-possessed. She began at once.

'I am coming about my Howel and your Netta, Mrs Prothero Howel is in a fine temper, keeping noise enough, I can tell you; and I should like to be knowing why he isn't good enough for your doater, Mrs Prothero; him as is worth hundreds of thousands, and is as like to be coming a member, and to be riding in his own carriage, and to be dining with the Queen for that much! and seurely, he don't be good enough for Miss Prothero Glanyravon Farm! Ach a fi! some peoples do be setting themselves up! my Howel, too! So handsome, and genteel, so full of learning! Name o' goodness what would you have, Mrs Prothero, Glanyravon Farm?'

Mrs Jenkins paused with a long emphasis on the farm.

'I am very sorry, Mrs Jenkins,' began trembling Mrs Prothero rubbing one hand nervously over the other, 'but my husband is afraid that Howel is not quite steady enough for such a giddy young thing as Netta.'

'Study! why, tak' your time and you'll be seeing how study and pretty he do behave. On my deet, and I 'ouldn't say that, if I wasn't as seure as I'm alive, he haven't took a drop too much, nor said a wicked word, nor keep no low company since his poor dear father was dying. Ah, Mrs Prothero! you was being very good to us when I was losing my poor Griffey. Who'd be thinking what a heap of money he'd be leaving, and Howel'll be building a good house for me? and seure, I must be dressing in my best, and having servants to wait on me? and, bless you, nothing as my son Howel's can be getting is too good for his poor old mother!'

'I am very glad to hear he is so kind,' said Mrs Prothero.

'Then what do you say about Netta, Mrs Prothero, fach?' sharply asked Mrs Jenkins.

'To tell you the truth, I have very little power; my husband made up his mind and wrote the note without consulting me.'

'Then maybe I could be seeing Mr Prothero?'

'I am afraid it would only lead to something unpleasant between you.'

'Oh, you needn't be taking the trouble to be afraid, ma'am! I am calling my Howel as good or better as your Netta. There was a time when you might been looking higher, but now I conceit it, it will be us as do condescend. There's Miss Rice Rice, and the Miss Jamms's, Plas Newydd, and Miss Lawis, Pontammon, and Miss Colonel Rees, and Miss Jones the 'Torney, and Miss Captain Thomas, and I 'ouldn't say but Miss Gwynne, Glanyravon, do be all speaking, and talking, and walking, and dancing with my Howels! There's for you: and yet he do like his cousin Netta best he do say.'

'If you wish to see David, Mrs Griffey, I will call him,' said timid Mrs Prothero, at her wits' end for anything to say or do.

'Seurely I am wishing to see him,' said Mrs Jenkins majestically.

David had not come in from his farm, so there was nothing for it but to ask Mrs Jenkins to take off her bonnet and have some tea, to which that lady graciously consented. When the crape shawl and black kid gloves were removed Mrs Prothero perceived a large mourning brooch, containing a gloomy picture of a tomb, set in pearls and diamonds, and surrounded by the age, death, etc., of the lamented deceased; and a handsome mourning ring, displaying a portion of iron-grey hair, also set in pearls and diamonds, and surrounded with an appropriate epithalamium. Mrs Prothero sat 'washing her hands in invisible soap,' whilst she saw these ensigns of grandeur in the once mean, ill-dressed Mrs Jenkins, and heard of all that 'her Howels' was about to effect.

Owen came in, and with due gravity admired the mourning insignia, and examined the dates, age, etc., of the defunct Griffey. He went so far as to venture upon a distant allusion to the future.

'I never thought those caps so becoming before, Aunt Jenkins,' he said, eyeing her from head to foot, and wondering that he had never previously been aware of what a good-looking woman his Welsh aunt was.

A Welsh aunt, be it understood, is your father or mother's cousin, and Mrs Jenkins and Mr Prothero were first cousins.

'Isn't Davies, Pennycoed, that you used to tell us was once a lover of yours, a widower?' continued Owen.

'Well, Owen,' said Mrs Jenkins, not displeased, 'you are always for jokes, but I do mean never to marry again.'

'Don't make any rash vows; a young woman like you!'

Here Netta having dried her eyes, joined the party, and shortly after Mr Prothero's voice was heard.

'After tea!' whispered Mrs Prothero to Mrs Jenkins, as she went out to meet her husband. 'Here's Elizabeth Jenkins, David, come over to see us, and she is going to stay to tea. I think she wants to speak to you afterwards.'

'Very glad to see her; but Howel sha'n't have Netta a bit the more for that.'

Mr Prothero put on a smart coat, brushed his hair, and came into the parlour, as became one about to meet a grand lady.

'How d'ye do, cousin 'Lizabeth? Glad to see you looking so well; welcome to Glanyravon.'

They shook hands, and as Mrs Jenkins made rather a grand attempt at a curtsey, Owen looked at Netta, and showed his white teeth; but Netta was as grave as a judge.

Mr Prothero was as much struck with the improvement in the widow's appearance as his son.

'Why, I declare, cousin 'Lizabeth, you look ten years younger than you did when I saw you last. Do you mind when we two used to go nutting together? If 'twasn't for my good 'ooman there—'

'I was just saying so, father,' interrupted Owen; 'don't you think Davies, Pennycoed—'

'I am not having no intentions of marrying again,' simpered the widow; 'wanst is enough. My poor Griffey.'

'Quite right, cousin 'Lizabeth, wan Griffey is enough, in all conscience.'

The best tea things were duly arranged; cakes hot from the oven buttered; the best green tea put into the best teapot, and all proper honour done to Mrs Jenkins, from which she augured well for her Howels.

As Shanno was very busy and very dirty, Mrs Prothero, during her preparations in the kitchen, was at a loss to know who was to wait if anything was wanted. Gladys chanced to be there, and said modestly,—

'If I could do, ma'am, I would soon make myself neat in Miss Prothero's gown; and if I might just take in the tray instead of you.'

'Thank you, Gladys, I am sure you will do,' and Gladys was installed.

'There is nothing that girl cannot do,' thought Mrs Prothero, as she arranged everything on the tea-table as neatly and properly as Mrs Prothero could have done herself.

'What a tidy girl you have!' said Mrs Jenkins. 'Do she mean to be staying over Hollantide? I am wanting a servant.'

All eyes were turned on Gladys as she came into the room again, but as hers were always fixed on what she was carrying, or on her mistress, she was not aware of the sudden attention she excited.

'Irish beggars!' muttered Netta.

'One of mother's godsends,' said Mr Prothero.

'What a beautiful piece of snow,' thought Owen.

After tea Mr Prothero invited Mrs Jenkins to go and see his fine fat cattle. The pair went together, leaving an anxious trio behind them.

Farmer Prothero was a man of few words when his mind was made up, and was not long in beginning the subject each had at heart.

'I'm sorry, cousin 'Lizabeth, that I can't let Netta marry just now. She's too young, and Howel isn't the lad to study her.'

'Oh! but you can't be knowing, David Prothero, how study he is since his poor father's death.'

'Then let him wait two years, and if he is downright well-conducted, then he may have Netta.'

'Upon my deet! he as can be marrying Miss Rice Rice or any young lady in the country! Mighty condescent, Mr Prothero!'

'Let him marry 'em all, I don't want him.'

'Then you won't let Netta marry my Howels?'

'If he's study in two years, and they are both in the same mind, they may marry, and be hanged to 'em! I never was so bothered in my life. But, between ourselves, I think it's just as likely your son Howel 'ould be study in two years as my son Owen.'

'Oh, name o' goodness, we don't want Miss Netta! No 'casion to be waiting!'

'Then don't wait, 'ooman! Who wants you to wait?'

Mrs Jenkins hurried back into the house, and left Mr Prothero with his cattle.

'I must be going now, Mrs Prothero—my son Howels too! Thousands and thousands of pounds. Netta, come you upstairs, my dear, whilst I am putting on my bonnet.'

Mrs Prothero was not duenna enough to accompany them upstairs, and consequently Netta gave a note to Mrs Jenkins, cried a little, and helped her to abuse her parents.

'Never you mind, Netta, fach,' were the last words, 'Howels don't be meaning to give you up.'

'Good evening, ma'am; good evening, Mr Owen,' said Mrs Jenkins, as she made the attempt at a curtsey, that caused Owen to show his white teeth again.

'Oh dear, dear! what will be the end of it?' said Mrs Prothero to Owen as Netta sulked upstairs. 'I wish Rowland was at home.'

'Very complimentary to your eldest son!' said Owen, laughing.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE MILLIONAIRE.

Nearly a twelvemonth passed, and an autumn morning again hovered over Glanyravon Farm. It would seem that all the inmates of the homestead were sleeping; but there was one already awake and moving furtively about. It was Netta, not usually such an early riser. The curtains of her trim little bed and window were drawn aside to admit all the light that a September twilight could cast upon the chamber in which she had slept since her childhood. A lovely bunch of monthly roses and some leaves of dark green ivy alone looked in upon her in the uncertain gloaming, as if imaging her present and future. She was dressing herself hastily, but with care, in her very best attire. She stood before the glass braiding and arranging her dark glossy hair, that luxuriant ornament of her bright, rosy face; then she put on the blossom white lace habit-shirt and striped pink and drab silk dress, her kind father's last gift, and the smart shawl and pink bonnet were duly arranged afterwards. Whatever the early visit Netta was about to make, it was evidently a premeditated one. When the attire was quite complete, and she had surveyed herself in the glass, she suddenly paused and looked around her. In a moment she was putting her room to rights, and pushing stray articles of dress into drawers, until all was quite neat; then she paused again, and glanced at a letter that was lying on her little dressing-table. Turning hastily away from this she opened the window and looked out. The sun had not yet arisen, though there was a streak of light, forerunner of his advent, on the horizon. Mountains, rivers, fields, and woods were all wrapped in a cold, grey mist, but still it was not dark. Netta tore the bunch of roses from the bough and put them in her bosom, then re-closed the window. She took up a large shawl that was lying on a chair, and a small package from underneath and dexterously arranged the shawl so as to fall over the parcel, as she held both in her hand and on her arm. Again she paused a moment and glanced around her. Her face was flushed, and there was moisture in her dark eye.

Oh, pause a little longer and consider, poor Netta! But no. The sudden flash of sunlight into the room terrifies the thoughtless child, and she goes hastily into the passage. Quietly she closes her door; stealthily she creeps along. She makes no sound as she steals, like a thief, through the house where she was born some eighteen summers ago. Before one closed door she pauses again—listens. She can hear the breath of the sleepers within. She is on her knees, and represses with difficulty a rising sob, 'Mother! mother! forgive me! God bless you!' she whispers, as she once more rises and runs down the remainder of the passage—downstairs—through the hall—through the parlour, and out by the little glass door into the garden. In spite of her tears, haste, agitation she cannot pass that bed of carnations—her mother's treasure—without stopping to gather one fresh and dripping with the air and dews of night. Innocent flowers! they will see her mother that very day; but what of the stray, wandering rose of Glanyravon? Through the garden, and out by the little wicket into the lane; across a field sparkling with dewdrops; over a stile; down another lane; over another stile, and into another field! Here she pauses and glances round. A dark figure at the opposite side of the field seems to assure her that all is well. She runs quickly across the meadow, and within it, under shelter of the hedge, near a half-open gate, stands Mrs Griffith Jenkins.

'Where is Howel?' asks Netta hastily.

'He did write yesterday to say he 'ould bring the carriage from Swansea to meet us at Tynewydd, and he was sure to be there by six o'clock,'

'Let us make haste then, Aunt 'Lisbeth. Why didn't he come here himself? I have a great mind to turn back.'

'Come you, Netta, fach! we'll soon be there. See you the letter?'

'Not now—not now,' cries Netta impatiently, walking along the high road as fast as she possibly can. Mrs Jenkins keeps up with her, but is soon out of breath.

'There's Jack Trefortyn; he'll be sure to tell. Aunt 'Lisbeth, I will turn back. Father will be after me. It is too bad,' sobs Netta.

'We are near by now, Netta, fach. Come you!'

The little woman quickened her pace into a short run to keep up with Netta.

'Here's the turnpike; we'll be at Tynewydd 'rectly.'

'I see Tynewydd,' says Netta, straining her eyes to catch sight of some object far down the road; 'there is no carriage—I am sure there is none. Cousin Howel ought to be ashamed of himself.'

Netta runs on very fast, leaving Mrs Jenkins far behind, until she reaches the turning to a lane that leads to a little farm called 'Tynewydd.' She bursts out crying, and stamps her foot as she exclaims,—

'Does he think he's going to do what he likes with me because he's rich? I'll tell him he shall wait for me, I will!'

Hereupon she turns back and runs faster than before towards Mrs Jenkins.

'Come you, Netta, fach! He'll be here by now. Read you the letter.'

Netta pauses a moment to read a letter held out to her by Mrs Jenkins. It runs thus:—

'I can't be with you to-day. Meet Netta at the appointed place, and walk to Tynewydd. I will be there with a carriage by six o'clock.—Yours, H.J.'

'See you, Netta, it isn't six yet.' Mrs Jenkins pulls out a large gold watch, which, while Netta was running on, she has managed to put back half-an-hour. 'Five-and-twenty minutes to six, see you.'

Netta turns again and hurries on.

'There is Jones Tynewydd. If he should see me,' says Netta. 'Do make haste, Aunt 'Lisbeth.'

They walk on for about a quarter of a mile, when carriage wheels are distinctly heard, and in a few moments a fly and pair is distinctly seen coming at great speed. The driver would have passed them, but Mrs Jenkins calls out,—

'A gentleman for Tynewydd inside?' Upon which he pulls up. Howel is out of the fly, and Netta lifted in before she knows what she is about. Mrs Jenkins is put in almost as quickly, and the fly turned and off again in less time than it takes to write it.

'Howel, how could you? I was going back, and I wish I had,' sobs Netta.

Howel kisses her and tells her to be a good little cousin, and she shall see London in no time. She clings close to him, and hides her face on his shoulder and sobs on. He draws her to him, and lets her grief have way. Few words are spoken for a time, but at last Netta dries her tears and says,—

'I was so frightened, cousin, and I didn't think it would be so hard to leave mother without saying good-bye. Mother was always kind.'

'Hide you, Howel! hide you, Netta! there's Mr Jonathan Prothero,' says Mrs Jenkins, shrinking back into the corner of the fly.

Howel peeps out and sees Netta's worthy uncle, bag on back, setting forth on some archaeological search.

Howel and Netta lean back in the fly whilst he passes, little thinking whom the vehicle contains.

'Uncle and aunt will be glad at least,' says Netta. 'Aunt says you are very clever and handsome, Howel, and wonders why father won't let us—'

'Marry, Netta—say the word. I suppose Aunt Jonathan found out my talents and beauty after I acquired my fortune.'

After driving about ten miles they stop to change horses, and in the course of three or four hours arrive at the Swansea railway station, newly erected within the last few months. The scene is equally new to Netta and Mrs Jenkins, and whilst Howel goes to take their tickets they stand wondering and admiring. Neither of them has ever travelled by rail, and both are equally nervous at the prospect. They are just in time for the express, and soon find themselves seated in a first-class carriage. As it is a carriage of two compartments, Howel fastens the door between the two, draws down the blind, puts some coats on the fourth seat, and says they will now have it to themselves all the way to London.

Netta seizes his hand and screams when the steam whistle sounds, and his mother falls down upon him from the opposite seat He laughs aloud, and seems in such buoyant spirits that the women laugh too; and very soon Netta has quite forgotten her home, as with her hand clasped in Howel's he unfolds to her his future plans and arranges hers.

'Deet, and this is like a sofa in a drawing-room. I shall be asleep if I don't take care,' says Mrs Jenkins.

'The best thing you can do, mother. I will awake you when we get to Reading, where the biscuits are made you used to sell, faugh! and be sure to show you Windsor Castle.'

Mrs Jenkins obeys her son's wish, and is soon sleeping soundly.

Howel then gives Netta the following intelligence, which, as it interests her, we will hope may be interesting to her friends.

'The old gown you gave my mother, Netta, I sent to a celebrated house in town, and calling there the next day ordered a proper trousseau to be made for you.'

'What's a trousseau, Howel?'

'You little dunce. Why, what we call a stafell without the household furniture. So you will find a wedding dress and all kinds of dresses and garments without number awaiting you, for I gave the milliner carte blanche.'

'What's carte blanche, cousin? You are become so grand.'

'Never mind—white paper with two meanings. And here is a present to begin with.'

Howel takes a leather case from his pocket and puts it into Netta's hand. She opens it, and sees a beautiful little gold watch and chain.

'Oh, you dear, kind cousin, Howel!' she cries; her eyes sparkling with delight. 'I have longed for one all my life.'

'Will you go back again, Netta dear?' asks Howel archly.

The watch and chain are duly put on, and then Howel continues,—

'To-morrow you will have a hard day's work. You must purchase a great many things that will be necessary for travelling that I could not buy. The rest we can get in Paris. I have invited my friends, Sir John and Lady Simpson, and their son and daughter, to the wedding, which I have fixed for the day after to-morrow. One of the reasons for my not being able to come to you yesterday was that I must be a fortnight in the parish where we are to be married before we are married. I just ran down by the night train, took the fly, and met you; and shall make up my lost night by sleeping in town, for certainly I slept nowhere yesterday. Can't sleep in a train like mother; always feel too excited.'

'I don't like those grand people,' interrupted Netta, pouting.

'You will know them directly. But don't let out anything about the farm, or father and mother; papa and mamma now, little coz. Miss Simpson guesses it is an elopement, I think, but I haven't told her so. They are very great friends of mine; very grand people.'

'Quite like Lady Nugent, I suppose,' suggests Netta.

'Quite—grander indeed. Well, I have ordered the wedding-breakfast, carriages, everything. Never had such fun in my life. It was quite an excitement. You don't know half my talents yet.'

'Suppose brother Rowland were to hear of it?' says Netta, frightened at the idea.

Howel laughs aloud, and awakes his mother.

'He is east, we are west, my dear cousin. He is amongst the plebeians, we the patricians; he is canaille, we are noblesse.'

'What are they, Howel?'

''Tis a pleasure to be hearing you talk, Howel,' says Mrs Jenkins, yawning and rubbing her eyes.

'I was saying, mother, that we are to have a grand wedding, and you must take care not to let anything come out about the shop, faugh! or, indeed, not talk much to the friends I have asked—Lady Simpson, for instance,'

'Oh, yes? you was telling me of her. Wasn't it when you was dining with Prince Albert wanst, and was wanting that money of my Griffey?'

'Do hold your tongue, mother,' shouts Howel, shuddering; he always shivers when he hears his father's name.

He sees a head trying to peep through the curtain, and thinks it best to hold his tongue for a time, then continues,—

'I mean, mother, don't mention my dining with the prince, or any of these old stories, to the Simpsons. You must both be very careful of what you say. I shall show you as much as I can of London to-morrow, mother, as you will be obliged to return the day after.'

'Deet now, I did be thinking I should stay a week in London, now I am going there for the first time in my life? I'll be staying after you, Howel, bach. I've plenty of money now.'

'You shall come up again to meet us when we return; but you must be at home to see to the house, and let us know what is said of our doings. You see we shall go direct to Paris, stay some time abroad, and then come and settle at home. Won't we astonish the county! Mr and Mrs Howel Jenkins will be no longer the Howel and Netta of old days; we shall be the upon, not the fawners!'

'I'd scorn to fawn on any one, Howel,' says Netta indignantly; 'I never did in my life. I always gave Miss Rice Rice as big a stare as she gave me.'

'You will be able to give her a bigger now,' laughs Howel. As they journeyed on, Howel pointed out all the different objects that were likely to interest his mother and Netta. Every one, or nearly every one, knows what an exciting event is a first journey to London, it matters not whether performed at eighteen or sixty-five. And if the first journey to London be also the first journey by rail, the wonder and excitement are doubled.

When Howel had finished all his instructions concerning the future, he thoroughly entered into the present, and enchanted his companions by his general knowledge of the passing scenes, and the amusing stories he had to tell. Netta was more in love with him than ever before they reached town, and wondered that such a grand and clever gentleman could have kept constant to a little country cousin like herself. She had seen nothing of Howel during the most stirring years of his life, and could not have supposed what a change the mere commerce with the world could effect. She considered him far more agreeable than her brother Rowland, handsomer and more polished than Sir Hugh Pryse, and much more fashionable than Mr Rice Rice.

At Swindon he treated them liberally, and loaded Netta with sweets to take with her to the carriage after she had swallowed her cold chicken and wine. As to his mother, knowing her peculiar tastes, he gave her a glass of brandy and water, upon plea of illness, which she took with evident pleasure; but fearing to attract the attention of the smart people around her, sipped so daintly, that it was not half finished when the signal to return to the carriages sounded, and Howel hurried her off.

'Just let me put this piece of chicken and ham into my bag, Howel, and finish this drop,' she whispered.

'Quick, mother, not a minute,' was all the answer she received, accompanied by a pull of the sleeve so imperative, that she was obliged to leave her half filled glass behind her.

At the Oxford Station, Netta began to wonder what Rowland would think of her conduct.

'Think!' said Howel, with a scowling brow, 'the prig! what right has he to think? He will know that three or four thousand a-year are somewhat better than a London curacy—ha! ha! and wish himself in my place, I fancy,'

As they neared London, Netta was haunted by visions of her brother, the only person she really feared.

'Suppose he should meet them! should find her out! Suppose the clergyman who married them should guess, from her name, she was his sister, and go and tell him?'

Howel laughed heartily at this, told her to look out of the window at London as they entered it, and see whether she thought one parson would be likely to be met by chance by another.

'This London!' exclaims Netta, 'I see nothing but the roofs of a lot of ugly black houses!'

'Carmarthen is as fine, and Swansea finer!' says Mrs Jenkins, her face expressive of great disappointment.

'Draw down your veils, and stand there whilst I get a cab,' says Howel, after they have descended upon the platform.

Netta trembles all over, and fancies every tall man in black must be Rowland.

'Name o' goodness what are all the people about?' says Mrs Jenkins. 'My deet, there do be a lot of carriages! And look you, Netta, at all the gentlemen's servants in blue and silver! Here's a place! big enough to hold our town. Look you at the glass—like a large hot-house. Seure all London isn't covered up like this!'

'Here you are! all right—come along quick!' says Howel, taking them to a cab, and putting them in.

'Half Moon Street, Piccadilly,' and off they go, as fast as the poor cab-horse can take them.

'Now, what do you think of it, Netta?' asks Howel, as they drive through the magnificent streets and squares of the West End of London, where every house looks a palace.

Netta was so bewildered that she could not answer; but Mrs Jenkins talked for both.

'Look you! well to be seure! that's grander than I ever see. There's a church! Trees too! Who'd be thinking of trees in London? Well, name o' goodness, where are all they people going? That church 'ont hold 'em all! There's beauty! Is that St Paul's, Howel, bach! or the Monument? My Griffey was talking of them! There's houses! Seure that's Prince Albert's coach! There again! Where was all those carriages going? Ach a fi! that man was just driving into our horse. Howel, name o' goodness tell the coachman to tak' care. He'll be upsetting us. Yes, indeet, Netta, there's shops! One after another. Did you be buying Netta's wedding clothes there, Howel! Is that a play-house? No! not a gentleman's house? I 'ould like to see a play for wanst, if nobody 'ould tell our minister.'

'If you are not too tired, I'll take you to-night, mother,' here broke in Howel. 'We may go, perhaps, after you have had some tea. What do you say, Netta?'

'Anywhere you like, Howel,' said Netta, 'I am no more ready than if I was just starting.'

'Pic what, Howel, was you calling this?' asked Jenkins.

'Piccadilly, mother. One of the best parts of London.'

'Deet, and I should think so. 'Tis like a 'lumination lights. There's no night here. Daylight all the year round. Trees again, like Glanyravon Park, and lights along by. There pretty—what a many carriages! Was they all going to the play? Soldiers, too, I am thinking! And more o' them gentlemen's servants in blue and white. Do all the servants in London be wearing the same livery, Howel?'

'Those are the police, mother,' said Howel, laughing.

'The pleece! Well, I do be calling them handsome men. When will the noise stop, Howel? I can't hear myself speak, much less you and Netta. 'Tis more noise than Hollantide fair! But maybe 'tis fairday here to-day, only I wasn't seeing no cattle. There for you! that man 'll upset us, seure he will.'

'Here we are, mother,' interrupted Howel, as the cab stopped in Half Moon Street. 'Now, you must remember that the landlady is not to be in all our secrets.'

'Seure, and this isn't half as grand as Pic—what's that long name, Howel?'

'Will you walk upstairs, ma'am,' said a well-dressed woman who stood in the passage of the house at which they stopped.

'Thank you, ma'am,' said Mrs Jenkins, making her very best curtsey to the landlady.

'Is tea ready, Mrs Thompson?' asked Howel, hastening into the passage.

'Yes, sir!' replied Mrs Thompson, trying to catch a glimpse of Netta's face.

'This way, mother,' said Howel, striding upstairs. 'You can send the traps into the bedrooms, Mrs Thompson. William, take them up.'

This to a smart tiger, emblazoned in green and gold, belonging to Howel's private menagerie.

'What a lovely room! what a beautiful fire!' cried Netta, as she followed Howel into a handsome first-floor drawing-room.

'Treue for you there!' said Mrs Jenkins, surveying herself in the glass.

Tea was ready, and a substantial repast besides, of which they all soon began to partake, and to which they did justice.

'I do wish I had that drop of brandy I left in those grand rooms, I am feeling a pain,' began Mrs Jenkins.

Howel drew a flask from his pocket, and poured a little brandy into his mother's tea.

'This must be the first and last time mother,' he said, as he did so.

When they had finished tea, Howel told them that their room was within the folding-doors, and that Netta would find a dress there for the play, and must make haste, if she meant to go. His mother, being in her very best black, wanted nothing but the widow's cap to complete her attire as chaperon. Howel lighted his cigar, and finished the brandy in the flask whilst the women were dressing. They soon returned, Netta looking really beautiful, in a new and fashionable white dress, elaborately trimmed with ribbons and lace.

Howel went up to her and kissed her with infinite satisfaction.

'Won't we create a sensation at the Olympic,' he said. 'There will not be such bright eyes and lilies and roses to be seen there as yours, cousin Netta!'

'Mother don't approve of plays, Howel!'

'You must think of me, not mother now,' said Howel, ringing the bell and ordering a cab, which as soon as it arrived received our trio, and was driven to the Olympic, where they arrived in due time, and where we will leave them for the present.



CHAPTER XV.

THE MILLIONAIRE'S WIFE.

'Don't you be taking on so, Netta, fach! if you do be crying this way, your eyes 'll be as red as carrots, and Howel 'ont like it.'

'Oh! Aunt 'Lisbeth, I can't help thinking of mother, and how she is vexing about me.'

'Look you at yourself in the glass, Netta, fach! and you 'ont be vexing any more. I never was seeing such a glass as that before. Look you! you can see yourself from the beauty-flowers in the white bonnet—dear! there is a bonnet! and you was looking so well in it—down to them lovely white shoes on your foots, I never was thinking before you had such little foots.'

This conversation takes place whilst Mrs Jenkins is engaged in dressing Netta for her wedding, and in endeavouring at the same time to soothe various ebullitions of grief that burst out ever and anon, between the different acts of the attiring. The girl cannot quite forget the friends she left behind her, when she so suddenly ran away from home. The appeal to her personal appearance is not, however, in vain. She looks in the cheval-glass which draws forth Mrs Jenkins' admiration, and thinks she has seldom seen anything so pretty as the reflection of her own person in her bridal dress. She hastily dries her eyes, and turns round and round several times to assure herself that all is right.

'Ah! Howel is knowing everything!' says Mrs Jenkins. 'Silks and laces, and flowers, and worked-handkerchiefs, and all as white as a lily! And your cheeks a deal redder than any I do see here along! My deet! but you do be looking genteel.'

'Do I look as if I had been crying, aunt?' asks Netta, wetting her eyes with lavender water. 'I'm afraid of Howel and those grand people. I wish he hadn't asked them.'

'Oh, for sham! Netta. There they are, I shouldn't wonder! Yes indeet! says Mrs Jenkins, 'I hear them talking on the stairs.'

A knock at the bedroom door is followed by the entrance of two ladies, apparently mother and daughter; the former a portly and roseate dame, clad in the richest of brocades and white lace shawls—the latter a thin and somewhat yellow damsel, a tired in white and pink bonnet and mantle to match, evidently in bridesmaid's gear.

'Ah I how charming! how beautiful! what a country-flower in London leaves!' exclaim the ladies, rushing up to Netta and kissing her. 'Good morning, Mrs Jenkins, your son has chosen a bewitching young person indeed!'

'Treue for your ladyship,' says Mrs Jenkins, making her very best curtsey, as the ladies alternately shake hands with her.

'Your ladyship' is no less a person than Lady Simpson, the wife of Sir John Simpson, a gentleman who acquired that title on an occasion when William the Fourth, of blessed memory, was feted in the city. Sir John, having made a considerable fortune in trade, and being blessed with a helpmate of an aspiring mind, has removed from his old neighbourhood to that of Hyde Park, where he is spending the money he earned on the general advancement of his family. This family consists of a son and daughter, who have been highly educated according to the general acceptation of the term. With the son Howel is very intimate, and through him he has long been known to the rest of the family; but it is only since his vast accession of wealth that he has had the distinguished honour of claiming Sir John and Lady Simpson as his particular friends. To them he confided his intended marriage with a beautiful cousin, who, for family reasons, was coming to London, he said, under his mother's protection, to be united to him. They had called on Mrs Jenkins and Netta the previous day, and were invited to the wedding in the various capacities of father, bridesman, and bridesmaid. Previously to their making his mother's acquaintance, Howel informed them that being Welsh, she naturally spoke the language of her country, and was so patriotic that she disliked any other; and said that they must not be surprised at her peculiar English, which was simply a translation of the Welsh idioms into what, to her, was a foreign tongue. He also gave his mother an hour's lecture upon her dress and deportment; and Netta a few hints as to her general behaviour, which, whilst it enchanted the elder, frightened the younger lady. Thus 'forewarned,' if not 'fore-armed' the forces of Simpson and Jenkins were thrown together.

Lady Simpson is an average specimen of a vulgar woman aping gentility; her daughter of a would-be fine lady.

After they have sufficiently admired Netta's dress, and put the finishing touches to it, Miss Simpson informs Netta of her duty as bride elect.

'Of course, my dear, papa will take you to the hymeneal altar, and our friend Captain Dancy will take me.'

'Oh! I hope there is no other stranger,' gasps Netta.

'Only a particular friend of my brother's and of Mr Jenkins'. Do not be alarmed, you shy little dove.'

'Netta, fach!' whispers Mrs Jenkins, 'the ladies was knowing what is right'

'Then my brother must take up Mrs Jenkins, and Mr Jenkins, mamma. I declare we shall be a charming party; and remember to take off your glove, dear, and give it to me.'

'We had better go downstairs now,' said Lady Simpson. 'Bridegrooms are very impatient at these times.'

Lady Simpson took the blushing, frightened Netta by the hand, and led her into the drawing-room. Truly the poor child did look like a lovely country rose, as Miss Simpson had not inaptly called her. Howel led her, proud of her beauty, to the portly Sir John, who patted her kindly on the cheeks, and reminded Netta so strongly of her father that the tears sprung into her eyes. Howel's frown soon checked them, and a thundering knock at the door, followed by the entrance of Mr Simpson, junior, and his friend, Captain Dancy, turned her attention from the father to the son. The look of decided admiration that the new comers cast upon her, quite revived her drooping spirits, and she smiled, curtseyed, and blushed as becomingly and naively as Howel could have wished.

Mr Horatio Simpson was a young man very much adorned with chains, rings, studs, and black curls. He had, moreover, a very fine waistcoat, and was altogether well fitted by his tailor. His face was not unlike that of an otter. He used grand words when he spoke, but did not tire his companions by quite as voluble a tongue as did his mother. He was one of those fine gentlemen who would, or could neither plod nor dash at his studies, and who was quite willing to take all his knowledge second hand from any one who would kindly impart it.

Captain Dancy was so entirely his devoted friend, that he gladly gave him the advantage of his superior parts, in return for various favours which Miss Simpson also aided in conferring.

Captain Dancy is a tall, fashionable-looking man, with what Miss Simpson and her mamma consider a splendid figure. 'And such a lovely moustache!' Miss Simpson usually adds with a sigh. The moustache and hair are, however, inclined to red, and the face within them is not unlike that of a fox. Perhaps some of his friends might be surprised if they found him in the present company; but he would do anything to oblige Simpson and Jenkins, who are, in turn, always at his service, in more ways than one.

After a little preliminary conversation, Mr Simpson offers Netta his arm; and followed by the rest of the bridal party, leads the way downstairs. A smart little liveried page is at the door, and two fine carriages are in the street, each with its horses and coachman ornamented with bridal favours.

'We cannot make all our arrangements' as I could wish, whispers Howel to Miss Simpson, 'owing to circumstances; or I should have met you at the church from another house.'

Netta, Mr Simpson, and the two ladies are in the first carriage, which soon arrives at St James's Church, followed by the other. How the bouquet in Netta's hand trembles, as she takes Mr Simpson's arm, and walks with him up the steps, and finally through the centre aisle to the altar! She has never been in a London church before, and the varied colours of that magnificent painted window strike her with wonder even now.

Netta turns very pale as she stands by the altar, and waits until Howel comes up. Sir John whispers some kindly words, which so forcibly remind her of her father, that she can scarcely repress her tears. She glances at Howel, as he stands opposite, gazing at her, and sees that his handsome face is calm and determined. He smiles as she looks at him, which reassures her. A prettier bride could never stand before an altar; Howel feels this and is satisfied. And Netta has loved her cousin all her life, and thinks him perfect. She can truly say that she leaves father, mother, all for him.

And these are the feelings with which they receive the first words of the earnest-spoken grey-haired priest, who tells them that they are assembled in the sight of God, to be joined indissolubly together.

Netta once read through the marriage service years ago. She had forgotten it, and would have read it again, but she did not take away either her Bible or prayer book when she fled from her home, and did not like to ask Howel to buy her one. Now, as the clergyman continues his exhortation, the words sound to her as some solemn and wonderful address spoken for her alone. She listens in spite of a multitude of feelings that are struggling within her, and is struck with fear when she is adjured to confess, if there is any impediment to her being lawfully wedded. She knows that her father's anger and her mother's sorrow are broad impediments in her road to happiness.

Her hand trembles, as he who holds the office that offended father ought to hold, takes it and places it in that of the clergyman It trembles still more as she hears the question put to her concerning her future conduct to him, so soon to be her husband, and to think she must audibly respond. Howel has already answered firmly and boldly, and she strives to say the final, 'I will,' firmly too, but her voice falters; she is too much absorbed in her own emotions to notice how carelessly and thoughtlessly Howel repeats his solemn promise to her after the clergyman, but she feels him press her hand and is reassured. Tremblingly, but in all earnestness of purpose, she makes her vow to 'love, cherish, and obey' him whom she has resolutely chosen for her husband; and, as if touched by her manner, and by the searching glance of the clergyman, Howel becomes more serious as he places the ring on her finger and repeats the last words in those great and awful names, which it is sin to utter but with humility and prayer.

Truly, as they kneel before the altar to receive the final blessing of the clergyman, they are a sight for much joy or much grief. Who shall say what the end will be? Two human beings joined in one to all eternity!

As that prayer and blessing are being spoken, a bright flash of lightning darts through the church, followed by a heavy peal of thunder; suddenly a great gloom fills the sacred edifice, and a storm of hail and rain dashes against the windows.

Poor Netta is superstitious and as easily frightened as a child; she starts and gives an involuntary little cry as the lightning flashes before her eyes, and the thunder seems to shake her as she kneels. She turns paler and paler as the storm continues, and can scarcely hear the concluding psalms, prayers, and exhortation, for her fear of the lightning which fitfully and at intervals slants through the painted windows.