CHAPTER XXVI.

THE FRIEND.

Mr Prothero started as soon as his horse was ready, and, it must be confessed, in a very bad temper. As soon as he got out of the precincts of Glanyravon, he began to make inquiries of every one he met, and at every cottage he passed, concerning Gladys. It was evident, from the replies that he received, that if she had gone that road, it was so early in the morning that no one had seen her.

At last he fell in with a farmer's wife whom he knew, who was jogging along on horseback, with a little boy behind her. After the usual greetings, he said,—

'You never come to Glanyravon now, Mrs Davies. I daresay you haven't seen any of our folk for a year?'

'Well, not exactly. But I almost fancied I saw that pretty young 'ooman that lives with you yesterday morning. She was too shabby, or I should have been seure of the face. Only when she saw me she turned away and went on.'

'Which way?'

'Oh, down the Carmarthen road, seure.'

'You'll excuse my hurrying on, Mrs Davies; I want to call at Lewis, Dryslwyn.'

'To be seure. Good morning, Mr Prothero.'

The worthy farmer rode off at a gallop, till he was more than out of sight of Mrs Davies. He stopped at a tidy cottage to speak to an old woman who was washing at the door.

'Did you chance to see a strange young 'ooman go by here yesterday, early?' he asked.

'What young 'ooman?' was the rejoinder.

'Rather shabbily dressed, with blue eyes, and a very pale face?'

'Had she a big black dog along, sir?' asked a boy who came from within the house.

'I think she had.'

'Then granny gave her a cup of tea when she asked for some water, and I gave the dog a piece of my bread and cheese,' said the boy.

'There's sixpence for you, my lad,' said Mr Prothero. 'Was there a young man with the girl?'

'Nobody was along, sir.'

'Which way did she go?'

'By there, to Dryslwyn, sir.'

Mr Prothero rode on to the picturesque village bearing this name. The old ruined castle looked down upon him from its curiously formed, tumulus-looking elevation, as he stopped before a neat farm-house.

'Good morning, Mrs Lewis.'

'Walk in, Mr Prothero. We were talking of you by now. There was a young 'ooman by here yesterday, and John Lewis said he was seure she had your dog with her. She went away so fast, that I hadn't time to ask about the dog.'

'Which way did she go?'

'Down the Carmarthen road.'

'Good morning, Mrs Lewis, thank you. I must look after my dog.'

Mr Prothero found it easiest to ask for the girl with a large black dog, and traced them to within a mile of Carmarthen.

He stopped at a small roadside inn to have a glass of cwrw da.[Footnote: Good ale] Here he asked the landlady of Gladys.

'See her and the dog! Is seure. They come here in the evening, and she asked for a slice of bread and a drink of water, and took out sixpence to pay for it. She gave all the bread to the dog, and my master, who is fond of dogs, told me to give 'em both a good supper. Poor dear! she couldn't help crying; and my master, who is tender-hearted when he sees a girl do be crying, tell me to give her and the dog a good supper and a bed in the barn, which I did, is seure.'

Mr Prothero paid handsomely for his ale, and having learnt that Gladys and Lion went straight to Carmarthen, went thither also. He made some few inquiries at the small inns that he passed, but gained no information. He accordingly rode through the town, and took the direct route to Hob's Point, whence, he knew, she would probably sail for Ireland.

The afternoon was far advanced, still he rode on. He began to feel as anxious as he was angry and annoyed, and declared to himself that he wouldn't turn back until he had found her. He soon began to track her again. All the little boys on the way had noticed the big dog, and could point out the route he and Gladys had pursued.

He stopped at one cottage where the mistress told him that she had made the girl sit down in the porch, because she looked so tired; and at another where she had asked how far it was to Pembrokeshire.

He had ridden about thirty miles, and twilight was creeping on. He began to think of the necessity of finding a night's lodging, and once more consigned Gladys and the Irish generally to any distant region where he should never see them again.

'If she hadn't nursed mother so tenderly,' he muttered to himself, 'I'd turn back now; but as she does seem to be running away from Owen, and not with him, it 'ould be creuel.'

The moon, the young May moon, arose in the heavens, and the farmer quickened his pace, for he knew the road, and that he was a good way from an inn, or, indeed, from any habitation where he could ask a night's lodging. Lights peeped out, one by one, from the cottages as he passed, and when he glanced into them, and saw the cheerful little fires, he thought more compassionately of Gladys, and wondered whether she had found food and lodging for the night.

He was within a mile of a small village that he knew very well, when it was about ten o'clock. The wind blew rather keenly, and he buttoned up his great-coat, and began to whistle, by way of keeping himself warm.

'Come, old girl! we shall soon have something to eat! come along,' he said to his mare, as he gave her a slight touch with his whip.

He was passing by a very lonely quarry in a field by the road-side, about which he had heard some ugly stories of robbers and ghosts years ago. Although he was a courageous, he was a superstitious man, and gave his mare another stroke as he encouraged her to proceed. She started, however, suddenly, and made a kind of halt. The moon was shining so brightly that Mr Prothero could see into the quarry across the hedge, and he fancied he perceived somebody moving about. He urged his horse on by whip and voice, but as he did so, some one jumped over the gate that led into the quarry, and made towards him. He was so much alarmed that he spurred the mare vigorously. He was sure it was a robber. He turned his whip, and held the heavy handle ready for a blow, which fell, in effect on the robber or ghost, or whatever it was, that leapt upon his leg, and seemed, to his imagination, to lay hold of it.

A loud howl, and then a sharp, joyous bark, however, soon told him who the intruder was, and gave him courage to encounter the jumpings and gambols of his own good dog, Lion.

The mare kicked, and Mr Prothero exclaimed, 'Lion! Lion! down, good dog, down! Don't upset me, Lion, bach. Let me get off, Lion! Name o' goodness, be quiet, dog! There; now you may jump as you will. Where is she? Where's Gladys?'

Mr Prothero was off his horse, and Lion was over the hedge in a moment. The former climbed the gate somewhat less speedily—and both were, in a few seconds, in the quarry, where, either dead or asleep, lay Gladys, beneath and upon the hard stones.

As the rays of the moon fell upon her pale face, Mr Prothero almost thought it was death and not sleep; but when Lion began to bark joyously, and to lick the cold hands and cheek, and when Mr Prothero ventured to stoop down and whisper, 'Gladys! Gladys!' and to take one of the damp, clammy hands in his, the white eyelids unclosed, and with a little scream of terror, the poor girl started up.

There, beneath the moonlight, she recognised her master, and falling down on her knees before him, clasped her hands, but uttered no word.

Where was Mr Prothero's ready-prepared lecture on ingratitude? Where were the questions about Owen? Where was the passion of the previous day? He could not tell. He only knew that he raised the poor kneeling girl kindly, almost tenderly. She threw her arms round him, and for the first time kissed him as if he were her father. Then, suddenly, recollecting herself, she exclaimed,—'Oh! Master! Oh, sir! forgive me.'

Her master did not speak, but lifted her in his strong arms, and carried her to the gate; lifted her over, lifted her on his horse, and, amidst the joyous caperings of Lion, mounted himself.

'Put you your arms round me, and hold fast,' he said to Gladys.

'Come you, Lion, good dog! we'll have a supper by now!' And so they all went, as fast as they could, to the neighbouring village.

Mr Prothero, with no small noise and bluster, knocked up the inmates of the little inn of that little place, and succeeded in getting Gladys ensconced by a cheerful fire in the kitchen. The poor girl was benumbed with cold and overpowered with fatigue. The landlady rubbed her feet and hands, administered hot brandy and water, and finally got her to bed.

Mr Prothero kept out of her way lest he should say something that he might afterwards repent of in the warmth of his delight at finding her again. After she was in bed, and he had heard from the landlady that she seemed better and more comfortable, he and Lion had a good supper—a meal the dog appeared thoroughly to enjoy, and which he ate with a ravenous appetite.

Mr Prothero told the landlady to leave Gladys in bed the next morning until nine o'clock, by which hour he supposed she would be sufficiently refreshed, and then retired himself, feeling thankful to Miss Gwynne for having made him do a good action, but still believing that Owen must have been in the secret of Gladys' sudden flight.

Gladys slept soundly until the landlady took her a good breakfast at nine o'clock. She then awoke, refreshed but frightened, and uncertain as to her present state or future proceedings. She was told that Mr Prothero wished to see her as soon as she was dressed, and accordingly when she had eaten her breakfast, she got up. She felt very stiff and weak, and her hands trembled so much that she could scarcely dress herself.

Lion found her out, however, and gained admittance into her bedroom. He was in such very boisterous spirits that he quite cheered her, as pale and frightened she tried to gain courage to meet her master. Before she left the bedroom, she sought for guidance where she was always in the habit of going for help and comfort, and found strength 'according to her day.'

Mr Prothero was waiting for her in the little parlour of the inn. During the morning, having nothing to do, he had employed himself by getting up his temper, and persuading himself that he ought to be very angry with Gladys. He had quite slept off his softer feelings, and whilst at his lonely breakfast had gone through an imaginary quarrel with Owen, and a dispute with his wife, which had so raised his choler, that when Gladys entered he was as red as he usually was when in a passion at home.

Gladys saw that he was angry and trembled very much; but she knew that she had done no wrong, and tried to reassure herself.

Mr Prothero began at once. It must be remarked, however, that he had previously learnt from the landlady that Gladys was pretty well, and had eaten a good breakfast.

'Name o' goodness, young 'ooman, what did you run away from our house for in such a sly, underhand way, and give us all this trouble and bother? Don't suppose I 'ould a run after you, if it wasn't for Miss Gwynne and your mistress.'

'Oh, sir, I am very thankful to ye and to them. I know I don't deserve such kindness.'

'Treue for you there. I should have thought you'd have known that one 'lopement was quite enough from one house. Pray, what have you done with my son Owen?'

'I, sir? Nothing, sir!' said Gladys, trembling at this abrupt question.

Lion licked her hand as if to reassure her.

'You needn't tell no lies about it, because I shall be seure to find out. Where is he gone?'

'Indeed—indeed, I don't know, sir. I thought he was at home at Glanyravon.'

'But he isn't at home. He went off with you.'

'Oh, not with me, sir—not with me, I assure you. I went away that he might stay, and that I might not cause anger between you. I am speaking the truth, sir, indeed I am.'

Mr Prothero looked at the agitated girl, and felt inclined to believe her.

'Tell me why you went away at all, then?'

'Because Mr Owen said to me words that I knew he would be sorry for, and because I saw that you, sir, were displeased at what he said about me.'

'What did he say to you? Tell me the truth.'

'He said, sir—oh! I cannot tell. Perhaps you would be more angry with him if you knew.'

Gladys' head drooped low, and a burning blush overspread her pale face.

'I can't be much more angry with him than I am, but tell you the treuth. Did he want to marry you?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And you—what did you say?'

'That I couldn't marry any one in this world, sir.'

'What do you mean to wait for, then?'

'Nothing, sir, nobody.'

'And what did Owen say to that?'

'I don't think anything more particular passed between us. He was very kind, sir.'

'I daresay. But what made him go away?'

'I think it must have been because he thought you would send me away.'

'And you don't want to marry my son Owen?'

'No, sir.'

Gladys' voice wavered slightly as she said this.

'Ha, ha! He's a fine young man, however.'

'Yes, sir, and very kind.'

'I daresay. Will you promise never to marry him?'

As Mr Prothero asked this question, he looked Gladys full in the face.

She blushed again, but returned his gaze with a quiet, grave look that seemed to wonder at the question. She did not reply at once, and Mr Prothero repeated it, louder than before, with the additional one of 'Do you hear, girl?'

'Sir, I don't like to make promises,' said Gladys; 'suppose the temptation to break it ever came, and proved too strong for me. I might perjure myself.'

'Then you mean to marry my son Owen?'

'No, sir, I don't think I shall ever marry him. As far as I can see now, I am sure I never shall.'

'Name o' goodness, what does the girl mean? You don't mean to marry him, and yet you 'ont promise—what do you mean?'

'I scarcely know myself, sir. But I cannot tell what God may appoint for me in the future, and so I cannot make a solemn promise.'

'Then I 'spose you're going to run off like Netta?'

'No, sir, never.'

'Why, "no, sir," if you 'ont promise?'

'Because I could never do what you and my mistress would dislike.'

'Then you can promise, perhaps, never to marry my son Owen without my consent.'

'Yes, sir, I can—do—that—'

Gladys said these words very slowly, and turned very pale as she said them. She clasped her hands firmly together with a visible effort.

'Well, you're an odd girl; you 'ont promise one thing, and yet you as good as promise it in another way. What's the difference?'

Again the colour came and went.

'It would be wrong, sir, in me to make a son disobey a father, and I wouldn't like to do it; so I can promise that; and maybe you may change.'

'Then you love the boy? Tell me the treuth.'

Gladys began to cry, and was a few moments before she could say, somewhat more resolutely than usual,—

'Sir, my feelings are my own. Mr Owen has been like a brother to me, and the mistress like a mother—and you—oh, sir! should I not love his mother's son?'

Mr Prothero was touched; he could ask no more questions.

'There, there—go you and get ready directly. I promised Miss Gwynne to bring you back to Glanyravon, where she means to make you schoolmistress and lady's maid, and all the rest. I suppose you don't want to go to Ireland?'

'No, sir.'

'Have you any relations there?'

'No, sir.'

'You don't want to leave Glanyravon parish?'

'No, sir. I would rather live and die there than anywhere else in the world.'

'Then go you and get ready; and, mind you, have some ale before you start. I must keep my promise to Miss Gwynne; mind you yours to me. You 'ont encourage my son Owen without my consent'

'No, sir—never. And I do not wish or mean ever to marry any one, if you will only believe me.'

'I don't believe any young 'ooman who says that. You may as well go into a nunnery. But I believe the rest till I find you out to the contrary. Now, go you and get ready.'

'Thank you, sir—thank you.'

Soon after this conversation the farmer had mounted his good mare, who was as much refreshed as her master by a night's rest, and with Gladys, en croupe, and Lion running by his side, he jogged back to his home.

'We shall have a fine long journey, and a tiresome one enough,' he muttered. 'Thirty mile and carrying double is too much for my mare.—take the 'oomen! they'll be the death 'o me, one way and another. There's mother, and Netta, and Miss Gwynne, and now this Gladys! This is the last time I'll put myself out for any of 'em, or my name isn't David Prothero.'



CHAPTER XXVII.

THE MISSIONARY.

It was about half-past ten o'clock when Mr Prothero and Gladys started on their homeward journey. When they had gone about half way, they stopped for an hour to bait the mare, which brought them to nearly two o'clock, and reduced Mr Prothero to a state of great ill humour. Poor Gladys had to bear many reproachful speeches, which reached her between a very animated conversation which he kept up with the mare and Lion alternately. He did not talk much to her, but contented himself with making her eat and drink a great deal more than was pleasant for her, because, as he phrased it, 'People shouldn't think she was starved at Glanyravon.'

In truth, there was a great contrast between the farmer's rosy, broad, good-humoured countenance, which not even his present angry feelings could make morose, and Gladys' pale, wearied face, rendered more palid than usual by her late fatigue and anxiety. It was with some difficulty that she could keep her seat behind Mr. Prothero, as the mare trotted on at an equal but somewhat rough pace, and made her long for rest.

However, all things come to an end, and within about five miles of Glanyravon, Mr Prothero muttered,—'Confound the 'ooman! Shall we ever get home; 'tis enough to kill the mare. Come along, old girl! Good dog! Lion, old boy!'—which sentences were interrupted by the address of a stranger on horseback, who asked if he were right for Glanyravon Park.

'Quite right, sir,' said Mr Prothero, pleased at any break in a ride that had been peculiarly devoid of adventure. 'I am going half a mile beyond the Park myself, and shall be proud to show you the way if you aren't in a hurry.'

'By no means. I am too tired to ride very fast myself, for I have been a great traveller of late. I came down from London to Glamorganshire two days ago, and have come across country in coaches and dogcarts to the "Coach and Horses." I daresay you know the inn?'

'Oh yes, sir. That's the "Coach and Horses" mare you're upon now?'

'Yes; I borrowed her to come to Glanyravon, and have promised to ride her back to-night, but I am sure I shall not be able. How far are we from Glanyravon?'

'About four mile and a half.'

'You live in the village?'

'There is no village, sir. I live at Glanyravon Farm.'

'Is there any inn nearer than the "Coach and Horses" where I might get a night's lodging, and a man to ride the mare back?'

'No, sir; but I shall be glad to offer a bed to any friend of Mr Gwynne's, though I am sure you'll find one at the Park.'

'Thank you kindly. I am not known to Mr Gwynne; but I am going to see Miss Hall, who, I believe, resides with him.'

'To be seure she does; and a better lady never lived. If you're a friend of Miss Hall's, you're as welcome to our house as if you were born and bred at Glanyravon.'

'You are very kind. It does one good to meet with true Welsh hospitality once more.'

'You're not Welsh, sir, I should say?'

'I was Welsh originally; but it would be difficult to make out my parish, as I have been wandering about for many years.'

'A clergyman, sir?'

'Yes, sir.'

The gentleman smiled, and thought the question savoured of American curiosity.

'I have a son a clergyman. Perhaps you may have fallen in with him. They tell me he's a very promising young man.'

'What is his name?'

'Prothero, sir—Rowland Prothero.'

'I do not know him personally, but I know him by reputation; he is curate of an old friend of mine, Mr Stephenson.'

'To be seure—Rowly's rector! Allow me to shake hands with you, sir. You'll sleep at Glanyravon.'

'Certainly, if I shall not inconvenience you and your family. Your daughter looks very ill and tired; perhaps it may—'

'Not a bit, sir. She's not my daughter; she always looks as pale as moonlight, 'scept when she blushes up; she'll see to a bed for a strange gentleman, and so'll my missus. To think of your knowing Mr Stephenson!'

'Yes, I saw him during my short stay in town, and he told me he had a capital curate, a countryman of mine. A regular hard-working, useful parish priest, he called him; a good preacher besides!'

'Well, mother will be pleased, won't she, Gladys?'

This was said in the old good-humoured way, and Gladys brightened up as she answered,—

'Yes, sir, very.'

'Are you ill?' said the stranger, looking at Gladys with sudden interest.

'No, sir, thank you; I am only rather tired,' was the reply.

'Tired! I should think so! Why, she's walked more than thirty miles, and ridden thirty in the last two days,' said the farmer gruffly.

The stranger glanced again compassionately at Gladys, but merely said,—

'She looks so pale that I fancied she was suddenly faint. How long has Miss Hall been at Glanyravon?'

'Somewhere about two or three years now, I should say; but when she was teaching Miss Gwynne she was there a great many years.'

'Is she in good health? How does she look? Is she happy?'

'If she was ill, sir, I don't think any one 'ould know it, she's so quiet and patient; but I think she's pretty well, and she can't help being happy, for she's just the same as if she was at home with her father and sister. Now she is a nice lady! If all 'oomen were like her there 'ouldn't be half the plague with 'em there is. She's quite content without having a lot of lovers after her, and running away, and making everybody in a fever. Deet to goodness, my opinion is that the world 'ould go on a sight better without 'em. What do you think, sir? You must have plenty of experience as a clergyman, for all the ladies are pretty sharp after the cloth.'

The stranger laughed, and said he thought the world would be very disagreeable without the fair sex, and that he had no doubt Mr Prothero would find it so if they became suddenly extinct.

The farmer was so pleased with his new acquaintance that when they reached the Park gate, he said very heartily,—

'Now, mind you, sir, there's a warm welcome, and a well-aired bed, and fine, white, home-spun linen at the farm. The squire may give you a better dinner, may be, but not a hotter, I'll answer for it; Gladys'll see to that; she's capital for that. And mother 'ould be so glad to hear what the rector said about our Rowly.'

'You may depend upon my coming,' said the stranger. 'What time does Mr Gwynne dine? I suppose I shall escape his dinner hour? It is now about five o'clock.'

'Oh! they don't dine till Christian folks are going to bed—seven or eight o'clock, or some such heathen hour. You'll be able to see them all before dinner; but I don't believe Mr Gwynne'll let you come away.'

'I shall not see him probably. Good day for the present.'

The stranger rode slowly up the drive from the lodge to the house, and Mr Prothero quickened his pace homeward. The mare, nothing loath, trotted off hard and fast, and Gladys looked paler than ever.

When they reached the farm gate they were greeted by a loud shout from the 'boys,' Tom and Bill, who were right glad to see pretty Gladys back again. They both ran as fast as they could to the house, to tell their mistress the good news, and Lion after them. Mrs Prothero was at the door to receive the travellers, and as Gladys slipped off the mare, took her round the neck, and gave her a hearty kiss.

'My dear David, I am so thankful! so much obliged!' she said, as her more portly husband dismounted. 'Come in quick; Miss Gwynne and Miss Hall are here. They were just going, but they will be relieved of all their anxiety when they see Gladys. Come in, Gladys, fach! don't be afraid; they must see you.'

Poor Gladys was crying with all her heart—good, comfortable, refreshing tears of joy at her mistress's kind welcome.

Miss Gwynne appeared at the parlour door.

'Well, Gladys! you have had your long walk for nothing. What a foolish girl you were to go away. Mr Prothero, how do you do? I am so glad you have brought us back Gladys. We couldn't do without her in these parts.'

'Do you still stand to your text, Miss Gwynne?' said Mr Prothero. 'We may as well settle the matter at once. It will be a great thing for the girl.'

'Oh, certainly; only she looks too tired to settle anything. Gladys, I will give you a day or two to consider whether you will come and live with me, as my maid, or be Miss Hall's pattern school-mistress.'

Gladys looked from Miss Gwynne to Miss Hall, and then from her master to her mistress, through the tears that were gathering faster and faster. She answered in a voice half choked by them,—

'Thank you, ma'am, thank you over and over and over again. If I must go away—if I must—whichever—you—like—I—' Here she finally gave way, and, sitting down on a chair, sobbed aloud. Mrs Prothero went to her, and put her arm round her neck. Miss Gwynne looked on compassionately, and Miss Hall turned to Mr Prothero.

'She does not like to leave you, Mr Prothero,' she said gently.

'I don't want to turn the girl out of the house. But if Miss Gwynne wants her, I think it is better for all parties for her to go.'

'If you please—certainly,' said Gladys, recovering herself with an effort. 'I would much rather go to Miss Gwynne in any capacity, and if I can be of use—it is best, my dear mistress.'

'Then go you, Gladys, and stop crying,' said Mr Prothero. 'Why, your eyes'll be as red as ferrets when the gentleman comes, and he'll think we've been giving you an appetite by making you cry. I was near forgetting, Miss Hall, that we left a strange gentleman at the Park gate, who said he was going to call on you; he's going to take a bed here, because there's no inn nearer than the "Coach and Horses."'

'Who can that be?' said Miss Hall.

'We had better make haste home, or we shall miss him,' said Freda.

'Good-bye, Mrs Prothero; I will come again and settle about Gladys.'

It was nearly dusk when the ladies left the farm, and they walked very fast. They had not gone far when they saw some one on horseback coming towards them.

'I daresay this is your friend, and that stupid Morgan hasn't let him in,' said Freda.

'It cannot be; I do not know this gentleman at all,' said Miss Hall, as the stranger advanced.

He looked at them, and they looked at him; but as there was no symptom of recognition on either side, they passed without speaking.

'I hope we shall have a good night's rest, now that Gladys is found,' said Miss Gwynne. 'What is there in the girl that interests one so much? Even Mr Prothero, in spite of his son, was glad to find her, and to have her at the farm again. Colonel Vaughan admires her very much.'

'I hope not too much,' said Miss Hall quietly.

'What an absurd idea!' said Miss Gwynne, colouring from beneath her broad hat. 'He is a man that admires beauty and talent, wherever it is to be found. I do like that sort of person; free from vulgar prejudice.'

'Not quite, I think, my dearest Freda. He is not so easily read, perhaps, as you in your straightforward nature fancy.'

'If he isn't prejudiced, you are, at any rate,' said Freda.

When they reached the house, Freda went into the drawing-room first, and Miss Hall heard her exclaiming, as she rushed out of it with a card in her hand,—

'Serena! Nita! only think! Mr Jones, Melbourne, South Australia! Hurrah! I never thought I should be so glad to see a card bearing that name. Morgan! why didn't you ask the gentleman who called on Miss Hall to come in and wait?'

'I did not know, ma'am,' said the man who was at the door. 'My master does not always like strangers, and I did not know the gentleman.'

Miss Hall had vanished upstairs during this little interlude with Morgan, so Freda did not see the agitation of her manner when she took the card and read the name. Freda went straight into the library, where she found her father half asleep over a letter.

'Papa! papa! Do you know an old friend of Miss Hall's has called, that she has not seen for twenty years, and Morgan let him go away?'

'Wasn't she glad, my dear? It is so exciting to see people whose very faces you have forgotten.'

'Glad, papa? Of course not. He must just have come from Australia, where her sister is living, and I daresay has brought letters. By the way, there was a packet near the card.'

'I don't understand people going so far away from their own country.'

'But, papa, Mr Jones—this gentleman—has gone to sleep at Mr Prothero's, and I daresay they are not prepared for him.'

'Really—well, my dear?'

'Don't you think you had better write and ask him here to dinner, and I will order a bed to be prepared?'

'Me! My dear!—a perfect stranger!—a bore! Some one full of tiresome adventures and travellers' stories, and all that sort of thing.'

'He is a clergyman, papa, and a Welshman, I believe. It would only be hospitable. We must not belie our country. Do write, papa. Think how anxious Miss Hall must be to hear of her sister.'

'But you say she has a packet of letters.'

'There is nothing like seeing a friend who has seen one's sister, I should think. Just one line of invitation! We will amuse him. He is very quiet, Miss Hall says. Here is the paper and a new pen. There's a good pappy, and—yes, "Presents his compliments"—yes—don't forget the bed. That's right! Now, just add, "that if he prefers not coming to-night, you hope he will make a point of spending the day here to-morrow."'

'But I don't hope it, my dear.'

'We will amuse him. Drive him out—anything. And perhaps he won't come.'

'Very well. Remember that I am not expected to—to—'

'Nothing, but just to drive with him. Thanks! you are a capital pater, and I will send this off immediately. Just direct it, "—— Jones, Esq., Glanyravon Farm." I wonder whether his name is David? I hope not. I don't like David.'

'Freda carried the note to the butler herself, and told him to get it sent immediately, and to tell the messenger to wait for an answer; then she went with the parcel of letters to Miss Hall.

The note found Mr Jones, Mr Prothero, and Gladys comfortably established near a snug fire in the hall, at a well-spread tea-table. Mr Jones asked for tea in preference to cwrw da, and he and Gladys were enjoying it, whilst Mr Prothero chose the good home-brewed. Eggs and bacon, cold meat, and most tempting butter were upon the table, and Mrs Prothero was acting waitress and hostess at the same time.

Shanno appeared with the note, delicately held by the corner between her finger and thumb.

'From the Park, missus, for the gentleman.'

'Promise you me, before you open it, not to go there to-night,' said Mr Prothero, taking the note.

'That I can safely do,' said Mr Jones.

When he had read the note he looked pleased, and his manner was rather flurried, as he said,—

'Perhaps I can manage to stay over to-morrow, but I will not go to-night. Will you oblige me with a pen and ink?'

Gladys was off in a moment, and returned with writing materials.

Mr Jones wrote a polite note, declining the invitation for that evening upon plea of the lateness of the hour and fatigue, but promising to call on the morrow early, and to remain the day, if he possibly could.

After he had despatched his note he seemed more thoughtful than he was before, and, for a short time, absent when spoken to; but rousing himself he made good return for the kindness and hospitality of his host and hostess by his agreeable and instructive conversation.

He told them that he had been a missionary ever since his ordination, and had travelled over the principal parts of the continent of Australia. Gladys forgot her fatigue in her great interest in his subject; and when he saw her deep attention, he frequently addressed her and drew forth questions from her which surprised Mr Prothero quite as much, or more than it did Mr Jones. Mrs Prothero knew the girl's turn of mind too well to be astonished at the amount of missionary and geographical knowledge that she possessed. Gladys was naturally very timid and modest, but when subjects of interest were introduced she forgot her timidity in a desire for information.

Owen had discovered her bent, and in their frequent meetings, accidental or designed, had often chained her to him by descriptions of the countries he had visited and the wonders he had seen. He, too, had found out that there was a deep vein of romance running beneath the stratum of reserve that, at first, had formed the outward feature of her character, but which was wearing away as she became accustomed to her new friends, and had been treated as a friend by them.

It was evident that Mr Jones was greatly interested in Gladys. He addressed her, looked at her, called her 'my dear,' somewhat to the scandal of Mr Prothero, who thought him too young a man for such a familiar address. But Gladys only turned on him two beautiful eyes beaming with a kind of wondering gratitude, and thought the white and grey hairs that were mingled with the brown, and the deep lines in his forehead, quite passport enough for the two kind words.

In addition to a great deal of missionary adventure, Mr Jones told his new friends that he had come home partly in search of health and rest, and partly to stir up friends at home in the cause of religion abroad. He said that he might or might not return himself to Australia,—it would depend on circumstances; but that he could not be idle in England, and was likely to become either a fellow-curate of Rowland's, or a neighbouring one. He liked a city curacy, because, having taught the heathen in another land for many years, he thought he might do some good amongst them at home. He told them, also, that it was during a year's residence in Melbourne that he had known Miss Hall's sister. He had been obliged to undertake clerical duty there, because his health was failing in his attempts to convert the aborigines.

Mr Jones was a man of grave and quiet manner, one who seemed to think much and deeply. He habitually led the conversation, without pedantry, to religious or instructive subjects, and when lighter matter was introduced, was given rather to withdraw his mind from it to his own thoughts.

He had been little in society for many years, during which his time had been passed in the highest, weightiest, gravest, grandest of all labours,—that of studying to turn the human soul from darkness to light. Now that he found himself in his own country again, he felt far behind most men in worldly conversation though very far beyond them, not only in religious, but in practical, useful, and general knowledge; such knowledge, I mean, as would be suited to the improvement, not merely of savages, but of the wild, lawless bushmen, gold diggers, and convicts of the Australian world. His manners were gentlemanlike but slightly old-fashioned, and, doubtless, many a young Englander would have found matter for ridicule in some of his doings and sayings. Not so, however, the good and cultivated Englishman of the nineteenth century. He would have found abundance to love and respect in the man who left the luxury, science, learning and refinement of England, in that most wonderful of all ages, to labour amongst the refuse of her people in the largest of her colonies. For Mr Jones had seen but little, during his twenty years of Australian life, of the better portion of Australian settlers, or the grandeur of her cities. He had devoted himself to those who had no means of gaining religious teaching elsewhere and he thanked God that the years of his ministry had not been without abundance of those fruits in which the heart of the laborious worker in Christ's vineyard rejoices.

When Mr Jones left the farm the following morning, it was with a promise to pay it another visit at no very distant period. He took away with him a letter to Rowland, which was to introduce the brother, clergymen to each other. As he shook Mr Prothero by the hand, he thanked him warmly for his hospitality, and then abruptly added, 'Take care of that young girl Gladys. She will surely prove a blessing to you, and repay you for any kindness you may bestow upon her,'



CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE LADY'S MAID.

Miss HALL and Freda were sitting alone in the morning-room that has before been alluded to. The former was much more nervous than Freda had ever seen her. First she took up her work, then her book, then she began to copy some music. Freda had great pleasure in watching her, and in remarking that the calm Serena could be excited by the expected appearance of a lover of twenty years ago; also in observing that she had a most becoming colour on her cheeks, and looked quite young; also that she was dressed even with more care than usual, and her hair was smooth as brush could make it. Freda longed to laugh at her, but she forbore; she felt that there was something very touching in this meeting between two people who had parted under such uncomfortable circumstances so many years ago.

When the door bell rang Freda rose to leave the room.

'If you please, Freda, remain where you are, I would very much rather.'

Freda resumed her seat, and shortly after Mr Jones was announced.

'Quite an old man; twice as old as Nita,' was Freda's first thought as she looked at him.

Miss Hall rose and advanced to meet Mr Jones. They shook hands, Freda thought, very much like other people, and then Miss Hall introduced her, and Mr Jones bowed.

'I promised your sister to come and see you, Miss Hall, when I came down into Wales,' he said after he was duly seated.

'I am very much obliged to you, it was very kind,' was the reply.

Freda saw that they were both as nervous and shy as a couple of children, and came to the rescue by apologising for her father's unavoidable absence, he having gone to a neighbouring tenant's, and by saying that he would be at home at luncheon.

By degrees they all three got into conversation, and Mr Jones gave Miss Hall an account of her sister and her family. One little girl was very like Miss Hall, and she was the general favourite.'

'I am sure she must be very pretty,' suggested Freda.

'Very,' said Mr Jones, with a smile at Freda, of greater archness than she gave him credit for.

'Don't you think Miss Hall very little altered?' she asked again.

'I think I should have known her anywhere, though I passed her in the twilight, uncertain who she was.'

A long conversation followed upon various general topics, until the luncheon bell rang. As no Mr Gwynne appeared, Freda was obliged to make another excuse for him; but Mr Jones seemed perfectly satisfied without him, if not relieved by his non-appearance.

Freda proposed a walk as soon as luncheon was over, and she and Miss Hall took their guest to see the school, which Freda was careful to say was under Miss Hall's superintendence. Then they pioneered him to various points of view, which he seemed to look upon with the eye of a real lover of the beauties of nature; and finally they rested on a rustic seat at the top of a wooded hill, whence they looked down on the magnificent valley beneath, with its green meadows, winding river, and boundary of distant mountains.

Alter Freda had remained here a few minutes, she suddenly said,—

'Would you mind my just running down to Mrs Prothero's to settle with her about Gladys? I am sure we shall none of us be happy until that matter is arranged. If you will go down through the wood, Nita, I will join you at the waterfall, or somewhere else, in less than a quarter of an hour. Will you excuse me, Mr Jones?'

'Certainly,' was the reply.

'But had we not better all go?' asked Miss Hall, casting an entreating glance upon Freda, who, however, would not see it.

'I think not. Mrs Prothero is so nervous that we should frighten her to death. It will take me five minutes to run down the hill, five minutes to say my say, and five to get to the waterfall. But you need not hurry away, as I can wait for you; or, if you are not there, I will find you. Come, Frisk, come with me.'

Frisk was a fine, little Scotch terrier, his mistress's especial favourite, and he bounded after her with great satisfaction. The pair were soon half-way down the hill, near the bottom of which Glanyravon Farm lay.

'I think I managed that capitally,' said Freda to Frisk? 'didn't I, Frisk? Now, if he doesn't take advantage of the opportunity, he is very foolish. Don't you think so, Frisk?'

Frisk jumped, and barked, and twirled about in a very affirmative way.

'I should like to make up a match, it would be such fun. And I think he is a very worthy, gentlemanly sort of man, though I shouldn't like him for myself, and he is not quite the sort of person that I could have supposed would have made such an impression on Serena. But she would be such a capital clergyman's wife, and he would be so fond of her! But what should I do without her? Get married myself? The only man that I ever saw that I could marry won't marry; and then he doesn't care for me. Heigho! this is an odd world. All of us at cross-purposes. But I don't mean to break my heart,—do I, Frisk?'

The 'do I, Frisk?' brought Freda and her dog to the gate that led into the road, and the road soon led them to the farm, where Frisk began at once to run after all the poultry, to the no small annoyance of Shanno. But Freda succeeded in catching him, and carrying him off with her into the parlour, whither she went, and whither Mrs Prothero followed her.

'I have just come to ask what you have settled about Gladys,' said Miss Gwynne. 'I cannot stay long, and am anxious to know.'

'My husband thinks it better that she should go to you, as you kindly wish to take her,' replied Mrs Prothero, with tears in her eyes. 'He says that he has no ill-will to the poor girl; on the contrary, he is very fond of her; but he don't think her a good match for our eldest son, Owen, who might marry very well. For my own part, I think he would never meet with such another as Gladys; but that is in the hands of Providence, and if it is to be it will be. He says that he is sure Owen will never come home as long as she is with us, for fear of sending her away; but that when he knows that she is so well off with you, he will perhaps come back again. And, indeed, we want him sadly, Miss Gwynne. It is a great trial to us, to have three children, and neither of them at home to help us. My husband is much altered since Netta married, though he don't show it; and Netta won't write, or do anything to prove she's sorry, and though he don't say so, I think this makes him more angry.'

'Then you really wish Gladys to come to me?'

'I do indeed, Miss Gwynne. I am quite sure it will be for her good; and you cannot help liking her. But she will not make any choice between the two situations you offer, but says you must do with her whatever you think best.'

'Is she very unhappy at the idea of coming to us?'

'Not at all. She is very sad to leave us, but she says she would rather do so, and would rather serve you than any other lady in the world.'

'Well, perhaps it may be best for all parties. I think she is too young and too pretty to live alone at the school-house, and besides, I don't particularly want to change mistresses: so I mean to have her as my maid, and then I can take care of her myself. You know I have not had a regular maid since that disagreeable affair of Evans; one of the housemaids has waited on me, and I don't like maids, they are so in one's way. But I shall like Gladys. And she can help Miss Hall in the school, and go and see you every evening if she likes, when we are at dinner. In short, I am sure it is a capital plan for us all, and will make matters easy for you.'

'You are so very kind, Miss Gwynne, I do not know what we should have done without you. Gladys would have begged her way back to Ireland, and died there.'

'I mustn't stay any longer; I have outstayed my five minutes over and over again. You can send Gladys when you like. I have heaps of dresses, and clothes, of all kinds for her, so don't you think of giving her anything new. I will give her the same wages that I gave Evans, so she will feel quite independent; and I will put her under the particular charge of the housekeeper, until she gets into the ways of the house. Now I must go; what will Miss Hall say?'

Well might Freda ask, 'What will Miss Hall say?' She walked as quickly as possible to the waterfall, she was not there; up the hill again, not there; home through the wood, not there; into the house, not there. She waited a little while with her hat on, but as no Mr Jones or Miss Hall arrived, she took off her walking things, and went about her usual avocations, saying to herself, with a smile on her lips the while,—

'I never thought I was a manoeuvrer before. It is evident they don't want me, or they would have waited for me, and I have no doubt they are much happier without me. I must go and look, after my father.'

Freda found Mr Gwynne in his library.

'Where is your guest, Freda? What is he like? Is he a bore?' were his queries.

'He is walking with Miss Hall, and my impression is they are very good company. He is very quiet, very grave, has no wonderful travellers' stories, and none of the ologies, and can play chess, for I asked him. I don't think him a bore, and I am sure Miss Hall doesn't.'

'Very well, then I will go into the drawing-room against he comes in.'

'Thanks; and I will whisper a little secret into your ear; he is an old lover of Serena's, and I cannot help hoping he is come to propose for her.'

Mr Gwynne was alive and interested in a moment. It is curious how on the alert people are when they hear of a love affair.

'I will go and dress at once; he must be nice if Miss Hall likes him, for she is certainly the least intrusive, and all that sort of thing. Is he like Rowland Prothero?'

Freda coloured at this sudden question.

'No, not at all; besides, he is a middle-aged man.'

'To be sure; I suppose so. Miss Hall must be—I don't know—nearly forty I suppose. I wish Rowland Prothero lived at the farm; he was so obliging and pleasant; even Lady Mary Nugent admires him.'

'She is no great criterion of what is agreeable; I shouldn't think it any compliment to be liked by her. There is the dressing bell. Now, papa, do be ready for dinner, if you please.'

Freda went to her room in a sudden fit of ill-temper. The mention of Lady Mary always put her out of humour. In a few moments there was a tap at the door, and Miss Hall made her appearance.

'I might have waited a long time at the waterfall, Serena,' she began maliciously.

For answer, Miss Hall went to her and kissed her, and when Freda looked up, she saw that there was an unusually bright colour in her cheeks, and something very like tears in her eyes.

Freda threw her arms round her friend, exclaiming,—

'I know, Nita dear! It is all signed, sealed, and settled n'est-ce pas?'

And so it proved; during that long walk the old love had become new, and two people as deserving of happiness as most of the poor sinful mortals who are for ever seeking her, were made perfectly happy for that day at least.

Freda's reflections, whilst she sat alone, listlessly brushing her hair and dressing herself, were as follows:—

'How happy she seems; she looks twenty years younger; and he, an elderly, iron-grey clergyman; it would be ridiculous, only it is all so true and good. I suppose, after all, there is something grand, as the poet says, in constancy, and love, and the like; and I ought to pity Rowland Prothero, if he really cares for me. And yet I don't; on the contrary, I could be over head and ears in love with another man to-morrow if he would only ask me; and he is gone away without telling me that he cares for me, if he does, as I cannot help hoping. But nothing shall induce me to give my heart to any one, unless I am asked for it, of that I am resolved; no, not if I were to die in the struggle to keep it.'

With this prudent and womanly resolution, Freda got up from her seat, hastily put on her dress, and went to Miss Hall, to insist on dressing her on that particular day.

'You must put on the pink and white muslin that you look so well in. I insist on it, and will have my way to-night,' she said, and had her way accordingly, and the satisfaction of hearing her father remark afterwards, that he had 'not seen Miss Hall look so well for years. She really was a very pretty ladylike person, and Mr Jones ought to think himself very fortunate, and all that sort of thing.'

To judge from Mr Jones' manner and countenance, he did think himself very happy and fortunate; and his happiness and good fortune had the effect of making him so very agreeable, that Mr Gwynne was quite pleased with him, and strongly urged his remaining some days at Glanyravon. But this could not be, as he was engaged to be present at a meeting of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel the next day but one. To Freda's indignation, her father engaged him in a game of chess, which lasted the greater part of the evening; but as he seemed quite patient under the infliction, and Miss Hall glad that he should be agreeable to her kind friend, Mr Gwynne, Freda was obliged to give up her plan of leaving them alone for the remainder of the evening, and to be content with resolving that they should at least have the following morning to themselves. This she effected, and was rewarded by a lusty squeeze of the hand from the gentleman, when he took his leave, which she afterwards declared to Miss Hall, would have made an Australian native scream. Mr Gwynne sent Mr Jones to meet the train in his carriage, and invited him to return as soon as he possibly could.

It may, perhaps, be as well to anticipate some of the events of this story, and to say that in the course of three or four months, Mr Jones and Miss Hall were married.

Soon after his return to London, Mr Jones was appointed brother curate to Rowland Prothero, recommended by his friend, the rector. He undertook this as temporary duty, because he was in expectation either of obtaining a living or of returning to Australia; Miss Hall was quite ready for either kind of work, feeling that, whether as the wife of a clergyman at home or abroad, she would be most thankful to be permitted to devote herself to her woman's part of missionary labour. Mr Jones had a small income as secretary to one of the London and Colonial religious societies, and was also engaged in work for the S.P.G., which, together with his curacy, and the small savings of twenty years abroad, enabled him to take and furnish a home for his wife, and gave them the prospect of comfort, if not of ease and riches. Their desires were very moderate, and their hopes fixed on objects beyond the general scope of vision; so that they were content to 'live by the day,' and trust for the rest. The world called them romantic and foolish for people of their ages; they 'knew in whom they believed,' and, 'having food and raiment, were therewith content.'

Gladys had been installed in her offices of parcel lady's-maid, parcel school-mistress at the Park, nearly three months, when the wedding took place. She had largely contributed towards making Miss Hall's simple wardrobe and wedding gear, and was rewarded by being allowed to marshal the school children on the happy-day, as they lined the drive at the Park gates, on the going forth and return of the bridal party. She was, moreover, the one selected by the children to present Miss Hall with a handsome Bible in Welsh and English, in token of their gratitude and love for her. Mr Jones had been too much engaged in London to allow of his visiting Wales until two or three days before his marriage, during which time he had occasionally met, and spoken kindly to Gladys, and given her a book on Missionary subjects, which he had brought purposely for her, expecting to find her at the farm. He had also carried pleasant news of Rowland to Mrs Prothero, and frequently spoken of him to Mr Gwynne and Freda—of his earnestness in his profession, and of the love and esteem in which he was held by his rector and his flock.

Freda felt very lonely when her dear Serena was gone. She had no one amongst her immediate neighbours for whom she cared much. The general round of country dinner-parties she had always found very dull, and the annual hunt week and assize balls she had never liked; so she found herself again thrown quite upon her own resources. As long as Colonel Vaughan had been in the country, she had taken an interest in everything; when he left, her ordinary pursuits—her riding, painting, music, garden—in all of which he had aided her, suddenly lost their charm. Her friend's marriage came about just when she wanted an object of interest, and when that was over she was thrown back upon herself.

By degrees, however, a healthier tone returned to her mind, and she forgot the fascinating Colonel Vaughan, and recovered her interest in her house, school, dogs, birds, garden, and the thousand and one small objects that serve to make time pass cheerfully and happily in a country home. Above all, she became more and more interested in Gladys, and anxious to shelter her from the many dangers and temptations which she saw her peculiar beauty and position subjected her to. She soon found out that all the men-servants paid their devotions to her shrine, and that even the ancient and portly butler was not indifferent to her charms; but the simplicity and modesty of Gladys kept them all at a respectful distance, and the housekeeper told Miss Gwynne, that 'Reelly, she was quite a pattern in the servants' 'all, and it was a treat to see a young 'oman who knew how to keep the men off—not but the girls were as jealous of her as could be; but that wasn't to be wondered at, for none of 'em was made anything of when Gladys was near.' Even Mr Gwynne roused himself to make inquiries concerning Freda's pretty maid, which was quite the crowning feather in Gladys' cap.



CHAPTER XXIX.

THE COUNTRY GENTLEMAN.

Plas Abertewey was a fine old country seat, that had been in Colonel Vaughan's family for generations. Miss Gwynne was not the only scion of the good old county gentry who was disgusted at seeing it in the possession of a son of old Griffey Jenkins, the miser. But so it was to be. Howel took the place, nominally for a term, but with the avowed intention of purchasing it, or the first place of any note that should be for sale in the county.

He made liberal proposals to Colonel Vaughan's agents as regarded improvements and repairs, the house having been much neglected for some years; and in the course of a few months after his marriage with Netta, workmen of all kinds were employed in adorning Plas Abertewey for his expected arrival with his bride.

This did not take place, however, until the following spring, by which time the house and grounds were in as fine order as money could make them. Howel sent down a person from London to superintend the work, and remained with Netta in Paris until it was nearly completed; then he brought her over to England, left her in London with his friends the Simpsons, and ran down into Wales, accompanied by Captain Dancy, who had been his companion during a great portion of his Paris trip.

They remained only a few days, and then returned to town to superintend the purchase of furniture, plate, and the various appurtenances of a country establishment, which were duly despatched to the charge d'affaires in the country, and vigilantly guarded by Mrs Griffith Jenkins, who took up her abode at Abertewey for the time being.

As bell-ringers do not pause to consider the cause and effect of the events they are ordered to commemorate, but rather think of the amount of money and liquid they are likely to receive for their labour, the chime of Llanfawr rang a merry peal when the future master and mistress of Plas Abertewey drove through the town. There was, moreover, a small show of fireworks on the occasion. Blue balls, crackers, rockets and the like blazed and hissed about to the no small danger of the thatched roofs of some of the houses. Mrs Griffith Jenkins undrew her purse strings on that day, and the cheering and shouting were great as the bride and bridegroom appeared. Howel bowed and smiled as all great men do on such occasions, and Netta laughed, and was proud. One of the blue balls made the fine pair of horses that drew Howel's new carriage take fright, but the London coachman showed the superiority of his driving by pulling them in' and the crowd shouted amain.

Captain Dancy and Miss Simpson, who accompanied the pair, were duly impressed with the loyalty of Howel's subjects, and were not particularly shown the little shop to which he owed their sudden devotion. 'Jenkins, the miser,' was quite swallowed up in 'Howel Jenkins, Esq.,' and 'Netta Prothero, Glanyravon,' was engulphed in his wife. So goes the world. Shout on, little boys, for so will it be when you are in your turn big men, and 'adore the rising, rather than the setting sun,' as the French proverb hath it.

Fortunately, Abertewey was in the parish of Llanfawr, and some seven or eight miles from Glanyravon, therefore Mr and Mrs Prothero knew nothing of the demonstrations in honour of their children.

Mrs Griffith Jenkins received them, dressed in a new moire antique, quite in baronial style, under the portico of their dwelling, and the proper complement of retainers was in the background. More shouts were heard from some of the immediate neighbours, who had gathered round the door to see the arrival; and as Netta alighted from her carriage, attired like a Paris doll, she felt that she was now a grand lady, and could conscientiously look down on Miss Rice Rice, and be on an equality with Miss Nugent.

Howel gave some orders in a very commanding tone to the various lords-in-waiting, and then the door closed upon their majesties, and the admiring crowds saw them no more.

It is no wonder that the world without Plas Abertewey was much engaged in talking of, and speculating on, the world within. Howel's horses, Netta's dress, Miss Simpson's father's baronetcy, Captain Dancy's regiment, Plas Abertewey's appointments, the footmen's liveries, the reputed wealth of the miser, even Mrs Griffith Jenkins' moire antique, mourning ornaments and gold watch were variously remarked upon, and doubtless with great good nature and deserving approbation. We all know how we rejoice when our neighbours rise to wealth or eminence. There was not one breakfast-table within twenty miles of Abertewey, from that of my lord and my lady to Jim Davies and his wife, shoemakers, over which the arrival of Howel Jenkins, the miser, as he was called, according to his father before him, was not pulled to pieces, from the first sound of the bells to the last shout at his hall door.

'Shall we call?' were the words on the lips of all heads of families, generally settled by the said 'heads' driving in their very best equipages and gayest clothes, to pay the wedding visit to the reputed millionnaire and his pretty, elegantly attired wife.

Money, as I have somewhat commonplacedly remarked elsewhere, is the master-key to most hearts, and Howel found that nearly all the hearts in his native county were opened by his wealth. The exceptions were principally those of his wife's family, and even in some of these he managed to turn the key.

It was shortly after the arrival at Plas Abertewey that Owen and Gladys simultaneously left the farm, and we find the former on that same morning, standing at a little distance from this residence of his sister and Howel, surveying it, and ruminating on the family fortunes.

'Well done, Howel,' he said to himself; 'if money hasn't done something for you, I don't know for whom it has done anything. I declare I will try and make some myself, and come back and marry Gladys in spite of the world.'

Then he began to ask himself, whether it was kind and brotherly to pass by his only sister's door without saying good-bye to her, and whether his father had any right to expect all her relations to give her up, because he chose to do so? His reflections were suddenly cut short by the appearance of Howel and another gentleman, bound, apparently, on a fishing expedition.

'Owen, come at last!' cried Howel, hastening up to him with great good will. 'Better late than never. I am very glad to see you, so will be Netta. Travelled early to hide your carpet bag, or whatever it is?'

'Knapsack,' said Owen, shaking his cousin's offered hand; 'I'm off to sea again.'

'A queer road to take; but you come to see us on your way, of course. Let me introduce you to Mr Simpson, Sir John Simpson's son. My cousin, Mr Simpson, my wife's brother.

Owen nodded, and Mr Simpson bowed.

'We're going out fishing, but you'll find Netta—in bed, I'm afraid, but she'll be glad to see you anywhere. Go up the avenue, and let Netta know you've come. We shall be home to dinner at seven. Good-bye for the present.'

Owen did not stay to consider, but walked past the handsome lodge, and up the drive, according to Howel's direction.

'Mighty condescending and very patronising, cousin Howel!' he soliloquised; 'but I will go and see how Netta gets on, and how your highness treats her.'

He reached the house, and rang stoutly at the bell. A servant answered it, who was adjusting his coat just put on, he not having expected such early visitors.

'The back entrance is round the corner there, young man,' were his words on perceiving Owen, whose pride was greatly roused thereby.

'Tell Mrs Howel Jenkins that her brother, Mr Owen Prothero, is here,' said Owen, intending to electrify the man.

But he did not succeed. The servants knew very well that their mistress's family was not of 'county rank,' and that its members were not upon terms with the Aberteweys, therefore had no very high opinion of them. He turned on his heel, and told a female servant to tell Lucette, the French maid, to tell her mistress that Mr Owen Prothero was at the door.

In a few minutes the man reappeared, and, with a great increase of civility, asked Mr Prothero to walk into the breakfast-room, and said his mistress would be down as soon as possible. Whilst he was admiring the room and its costly furniture, and considering the tea service, a smart little French-woman came to him and asked him in French, whether he would stay to breakfast; as he knew something of the language he replied in the affirmative. Then appeared an equally smart and fascinating French valet, who begged to be allowed the honour of conducting Monsieur to a bedroom, to arrange his toilet.

Owen laughed heartily and followed the man, who took up his knapsack daintily, and led him to a very handsome bedroom, where Owen brushed his hair as becomingly as he could, arranged his beard, and made himself as smart as his wardrobe would allow of his doing. He was, as we have before said, a very handsome young man, and sufficiently well mannered to pass muster anywhere.

'What is the next act, I wonder?' said he, as he found his way into the breakfast-room. He was quite taken aback as he entered, when he saw a pale young lady sitting in one of the windows, reading. He made his bow, she curtseyed, and said,—

'Mrs Howel Jenkins' brother, I believe? My name is Simpson.'

Owen bowed again, and not being of a shy turn, and having seen ladies of various degrees during his travels, began to make himself agreeable.

In a few minutes, a little French fairy flitted into the room, with her hair off her face to display such eyes and complexion as are rare in all times; and muslins, laces, and ribbons so blended, as to set off a petite figure to the very best advantage. Owen was going to bow again, when a little affected laugh, and a 'Ma foi! he doesn't know me, Miss Simpson,' proclaimed the fairy to be his sister Netta.

'Owen, you naughty boy, not to know me,' the little thing continued, more naturally, running up to her brother, who took her, despite muslins, laces, and ribbons, almost up in his big arms, and kissed her.

'How you have rumpled me, Owen? did you ever see such a thing, Miss Simpson?' she cried, half laughing, half in tears, as she smoothed down the point-lace sleeves and collar.

Just then a tall man entered, and Netta disengaging herself from Owen, who was on the point of kissing her again, and asking her what she had done to herself, simpered out an introduction between 'Captain Dancy and my brother, Captain Prothero.'

'Not quite that yet,' began Owen, anxious to disclaim the captaincy, when he was interrupted by the entrance of one or two other men, who were, in their turn, named to him as Sir Samuel Spendall and Mr Deep. Owen did not like their appearance and looked towards his really lovely little sister, to see how she received them. Her manners had a mixture of affectation and simplicity that was rather taking than otherwise. And Owen wondered how Howel could leave one so young and pretty amongst three men of the world, which he soon discovered his new acquaintances to be. True, Miss Simpson was with her, and in the middle of breakfast, to which, in due time, they sat down, another lady came upon the scene, by name Madame Duvet, who turned out to be the English widow of a Frenchman. She was young, handsome, but over-bold for the taste of a man who was in love with Gladys.

She was at once taken with Owen's handsome face, and talked to him incessantly, whilst Captain Dancy seated himself near Netta, and devoted himself to her much more closely than Owen liked. However, he was very hungry, and managed to make a good breakfast.

He heard Netta telling Captain Dancy that her brother had been at sea all his life, and knew nothing of the fashionable world; at which he thought the ham he was eating would have choked him, in his effort to repress a laugh. He longed very much to knock down one of the 'Jeames's,' who would stand gazing at him, and did so far betray his indignation, as to ask him, when he came behind his chair, whether he saw anything remarkable in his appearance, which so amused Madame Duvet, that she exclaimed 'Charmant! brava! you make me crever de rire.'

Owen was astonished at everything, but at nothing so much as at his sister. Netta had always aped the fine lady, and made the most of her few accomplishments; but now it was all like a fairy-tale, and the heroine was Netta, transformed by some fairy into a princess. By turns coquettish, affected, simple, languishing, accordingly as she feared she was too like her natural self—the Netta of the Farm was no more, and her representative was, to Owen at least, an anomaly. How she could have acquired such an amount of small talk, and such a mincing speech in nine months, was an enigma to him. London, Paris, the opera, the fashions, even the picture galleries, were alternately in her mouth; and she poured out tea and coffee, and laughed a silly laugh, much to her own satisfaction, and Owen's disgust, whilst all the men were looking at her; for assuredly she was very pretty.

'Owen,' she said, during a sudden pause in rather a noisy conversation, 'I hear Rowland is quite a fashionable preacher. Howel means to ask him down here, I believe. Miss Simpson went to hear him—didn't you, Miss Simpson?'

This was drawled out, and Owen felt very much disposed to get up and shake his sister, as he had often done when she came from school with any new airs and graces. But he contented himself with saying,——

'Rowly's a capital fellow, Netta, fach, and doing his best. Whether he's a fashionable preacher or not I don't know, but he kept us all awake at Llanfach one Sunday for half-an-hour, which is something.'

'Your brother is so amusing! so naif! I die of him!' said Madame Duvet.

'Very original!' remarked Miss Simpson; 'I do like originality—'

'Then you must like Netta,' said Owen; 'for there was never any one of our family the least like her.'

'Oh yes! you are, about the eyes. Malin!' said Madame Duvet.

After breakfast, Owen tried to get Netta a little to himself, but there were distant calls to make, and drives and rides to be arranged, which caused him to be unsuccessful in his efforts. So he fell to the lot of Mr Deep, who took him to see Howel's hunters and dogs, and all the other wonders of Abertewey.

'Deep by name, and deep by nature,' was Owen's reflection, after his morning with his new acquaintance. 'He has managed to get all my secrets out of me, one excepted; but he has not confided any to me in return. One thing I suspect, however, that he has a turn for horse-racing and betting.'

Howel and Mr Simpson came home about six o'clock; and the whole party, with the addition of Mr Rice Rice, assembled at dinner. Howel had ordered his valet to see that 'Captain Prothero' was properly dressed; and, accordingly, Owen was obliged to put on a smart waistcoat and tie belonging to Howel, which greatly embellished his outer man, and gave him increased favour in the eyes of Madame Duvet and Miss Simpson.

He was more astounded than ever when he saw his sister in her evening costume.

'What do you think of her, Owen?' whispered Howel, as he stood literally gazing at her before dinner.

'I can't exactly say,' was the reply; 'but she is no longer Netta Prothero of the Farm.'

'I should imagine not!' said Howel. 'Pray don't let us talk of farms here, Owen. I don't like conversation that smells of the shop.'

'Not even of the old place where we used to steal lollilops?' asked Owen, maliciously.

Howel turned away for fear of being overheard, and devoted himself quite as much to Madame Duvet, as Captain Dancy still did to Netta; and Owen wondered on.

Again he looked at Netta, as she sat curled up on a sofa, a mere child in appearance, but so pretty, in white, with some sort of cherry-coloured ornaments for dress and head, that no one could possibly have recognised her as the country belle of twelve months ago. 'Her own mother would not know her!' thought Howel. 'Poor mother, she would scarcely care for all this grandeur, though one can't help envying it a little. I will be off to California, and come home and buy a place, and see whether Gladys would not be as good a fine lady as Netta.'

The dinner was grand; the servants were grand; all was grand to Owen's bewildered imagination. Madame Duvet made such very decided attempts to talk to him, however, that he was obliged to cease wondering, and to bring his usually versatile genius into play, in the light of all the grandeur. He got on so well with the lady, that Howel wondered in his turn, and after dinner told Owen that he verily believed if he played his cards well, he might make an impression on the pretty widow.

'One can do that, I should say, without any cards at all,' said Owen, showing his white teeth from amidst his big black beard.

When the ladies had left the dinner-table, Owen began to gain some insight into the characters and pursuits of Howel's guests. He had not spent thirteen or fourteen years amongst men of all ranks and all nations, without having acquired a shrewd judgment, and a tolerable knowledge of mankind.

The conversation turned at once upon hunting, racing, steeple-chasing, billiards, bets, and the like. It was evident that Howel, too, was well initiated into such matters. Mr Rice Rice asked him when the question of the hounds was to be decided, and Howel said that kennels were in preparation, and that he hoped to have a first-rate pack by the winter. There arose a dispute about a celebrated racer that Howel appeared to possess in London, and that was expected daily at Abertewey. Howel declared his intention of letting her run at the Carmarthen races. Captain Dancy, having heavy stakes on the mare, vowed it might disable her for the Derby, and words ran high; but Mr Deep interposed, and changed the subject to that of rouge et noir.

They sat over the dinner-table till nearly eleven o'clock, by which time they were all more or less exhilarated. Howel's wines were good, his cellar was well stocked, and he was lavish of everything that might give him a reputation amongst the Welsh squires that surrounded him, many of whom still worshipped at the shrine of Bacchus.

When they joined the ladies, Owen thought the conversation was rather too loud and boisterous. Captain Dancy alone was quite himself, and made Netta sing some little French songs to Owen's great amusement. After tea and coffee had been carried round, a card table appeared, and vingt-et-un was proposed. The stakes were so high that Owen trembled for his small stock of wealth? but to his astonishment again, he found himself, at the end of the evening, a gainer of nearly five pounds, although he had been most moderate in his own stakes. He was struck with the eagerness of Madame Duvet and Netta, who entered into the game with all the avidity of accomplished gamblers.

It was very late when they finished the game, and nominally retired for the night, but not late enough to prevent Howel, Captain Dancy, Mr Deep, and Sir Samuel Spendall from sitting down again to whist. Owen left them at it, not altogether satisfied with himself or his companions.

The following day, Owen again tried to get some private conversation with Howel or Netta, but in vain. The breakfast was even later than the previous morning, as Howel did not go out fishing, and afterwards there were more distant calls to make, and Netta was engaged in preparing her dress with her maid for a dinner-party at Mr Rice Rice's, at which she desired to appear particularly grand. The gentlemen were playing billiards part of the day, and riding the rest, in neither of which amusement Owen joined. Madame Duvet did her best to amuse him, and succeeded very well, for Owen was far from insensible to the charms of beauty, and, in spite of Gladys, could not resist flirting a little, in his own matter-of-fact way, with a pretty woman.

The three ladies, Captain Dancy and Howel, were the dinner guests at Mr Rice Rice's, the other gentlemen were invited for the dance in the evening. Young Rice Rice had given Owen a lame invitation the previous day, which he had declined; never having been in the habit of visiting him when at home, he did not choose to do so under Howel's countenance.

Owen's astonishment was brought to a climax that evening when his sister appeared dressed for this, her first public appearance on the small stage of a country-neighbourhood, or, to speak more respectfully, county visiting. It was Howel's pleasure that she should make it in point lace and diamonds. Not even to Owen was it whispered that the lace was a wonderfully good imitation, or that the diamonds, instead of being of the first water, were first-rate paste; and no one suspected the deception. The great millionnaire, Howel Jenkins, could well afford to give his pretty wife the real jewels and lace, and had the credit of so doing; and as no one, save himself and the jeweller, knew that they were false, he thought himself a very clever fellow for gaining the reputation of unbounded liberality upon very small means. Be it said, however, that his own studs, pin and ring, were real.

The French maid had eclipsed herself in Netta's toilet, and Owen felt that if she were not his sister, he must have fallen in love with her himself. The black roguish eyes sparkled like the brilliants she wore, and the complexion was scarcely rivalled by the roses she had in her bouquet.

Howel looked really proud of her, and it is not surprising that he felt greatly elevated as he took the reins from the coachman and drove off in his fine new carriage, drawn by capital horses, and attended by liveried servants.

His last whisper to Netta, before they entered Mr Rice Rice's drawing-room was, 'Keep up your consequence, and don't say, "Yes, indeed!" every minute.'

He was determined to keep up his own consequence, and began at once by patronising everybody present. There were some of the county gentry who had demurred as to calling on the old miser's son, and who were astonished at the kind of tone he assumed. They, who had been gravely considering whether they could possibly shake hands with him, found themselves on a level with, if not beneath him, at once, by mere effrontery. There is some truth in the saying that, 'Accordingly as you think of yourself, others will think of you;' and impudence and riches combined, together with a certain amount of talent and personal appearance, can overcome vast worldly obstacles. Besides did he not bring an unmarried baronet with him—one of the very ancient family of Spendalls—and the son and daughter of a man of title, and a captain of the dragoon guards? to say nothing of that fashionable widow, reputed a fortune. And were there not plenty of young ladies, poor if proud, in the county, wanting partners, either for dancing or life, or both?

After that evening, people sneered at home perhaps, but they called and invited and made much of the master and mistress of Plas Abertewey, forgetting or ignoring their origin.

Netta, too, obeyed Howel's last injunction to the best of her ability. Her youth and beauty were greatly in her favour, and her affectation covered the shyness and awkwardness that she felt in being suddenly thrown amongst people upon whom she had formerly looked with awe. The Nugents were there, but the Gwynnes were absent, and she had the pleasure of feeling that she had as many, if not more, partners than the heiress, Miss Nugent, and was much more grandly dressed. As for Miss Rice Rice, she fell quite into the shade before her.

Her old friend, Sir Hugh Pryse, was particularly attentive, and talked to her of Miss Gwynne; and Captain Dancy was as much devoted to her abroad as at home. Her head was quite turned, and nothing but the consciousness that Howel was present kept it on her shoulders at all; but the fear of a lecture for some mistake in manners kept her so much on her guard, that she got through the evening wonderfully, and achieved what Mme. Duvet called un grand succes.

And Howel danced, and talked, and introduced his friends, and patronised everybody, much as if he had been a feudal monarch amongst his barons. Here and there might have been seen a suppressed smile, as one of the company whispered to another, 'Where is Mrs Griffey Jenkins to-night? What would old Griff, the miser, say to those diamonds? I wonder his very ghost doesn't appear?' but still money won its usual way. And when Howel's chariot came to the door, there were more surprised and admiring eyes fixed upon it from the bystanders without, than on that of any other of the assembled party. As Mrs Griffey Jenkins said when she heard of the evening gaieties,—

'Deet to goodness, and my Howel's was grander than any one. I do answer for that. Now his is a beauty carriage and horses, and servants as grand as Queen Victoria's or Prince Albert's, for I did be seeing them in London myself.'



CHAPTER XXX.

THE PATRON.

Tuesday and Wednesday had passed quickly away, and Thursday brought to Owen amusements similar to those of the previous days; but no private intercourse with his relations. In the evening of his third day at Abertewey, there was a concert at the neighbouring town, huge bills of which had been posted up on the walls and houses of the said town, purporting that the entertainment was under the immediate patronage of Howel Jenkins, Esq. of Plas Abertewey, and his friends. Elegant little pink and blue programmes were scattered over that patriotic gentleman's tables, and he had used his eloquent language, and made great efforts to get together a large party for the occasion.

It was principally a Welsh concert, he urged, and he considered it right to patronise native talent. There was the celebrated Eos, and the last representative of the ancient bards, and the best specimen of a Welsh harper, besides several respectable English singers, and he, for one, should muster as many supporters as he possibly could.

He did so, accordingly, and with that spirit of liberality which characterised him when any popularity was to be acquired thereby purchased a great number of tickets, and distributed them amongst his servants and neighbours with majestic grace. He had managed to enlist a large party at Mr Rice Rice's the previous evening, some of whom were to dine at Abertewey, and to go thence to the concert; others to meet him and his friends there.

Owen felt lost in the grandeur of that evening, and would have been quite forgotten but for Mme. Duvet, who was constant in her admiration of him. But it was amusement and wonder enough for him to watch Howel and Netta, quite en prince et princesse, receiving their guests, who, if not as yet of the aristocracy of the county, were of high respectability and good position in it. If the host and hostess were rather desirous of showing how grand they were, their dinner and wines were so good as to cover their efforts.

What if their guests remarked, as guests will, gentle reader, when our backs are turned, that Howel was insufferably purse-proud and conceited, and his wife as affected and provincial as possible; they did not hear the friendly notices, and were well content to fill the concert room with their party, all in full dress, to the admiration of the townsfolk, and of Mrs Griffey Jenkins in particular.

Howel had quite forgotten his mother in his general invitation and did not even see her for some time, seated in a prominent position, and making one of his own party, to all appearance. She had saved his character for filial duty by going where he would little have thought of placing her, and awaiting his arrival, as her pride impelled her to do. Owen spied her at once, and took Mme. Duvet to the seat next her, on her left; whilst on her right sat Mr Deep, and nigh to him, of all people in the world, Mrs Rice Rice, that staunch supporter of family dignity.

Owen shook hands with Aunt 'Lizbeth, and introduced her to Madame Duvet and Mr Deep, after having asked them first of all whether they had seen her previously.

'I never had that honour,' said Madame Duvet, curtseying.

'I didn't be going to Abertewey since you was coming there, ma'am,' said Mrs Griffey, rising and curtseying, to the unspeakable diversion of Mrs Rice Rice and Mr Deep.

The reader may remember that Mrs Jenkins was at Abertewey when Howel made his triumphant entry there, but the following morning he gave her to understand, as delicately as he could, that the idiomatic translations of the Welsh language which had been so refreshing in London, would be better in her native town than at Abertewey, and she departed accordingly.

His ire may be imagined, when he suddenly heard the well-known idioms lavished upon Madame Duvet and Mr Deep, who were enjoying them a great deal more than the concert, which, being principally in the vernacular, was not so intelligible and far less amusing. Mrs Jenkins was in her glory. Never had Mrs Rice Rice been so condescending before. She and Mr Deep made themselves more agreeable than she had supposed it possible for such grand people to be, and she frequently glanced at Owen, as much as to say, 'And I am the person that your father turned out of doors!'

Owen, on his side, was sorry that he had exposed her to the sarcasm that she so little understood, and talked to Madame Duvet to withdraw attention from her.

As to Howel, his rising sun was obscured—his blushing honours were dimmed—his majesty, patronage, grandeur were lowered by the propinquity of his nearest of kin. In the midst of his county friends himself, he still felt that his mother was making herself ridiculous near at hand; whilst complimented and thanked for his patriotic support of native cos,[Footnote: Nightingales.] the native idioms rang in his ears, and he longed to annihilate them altogether. This on his right hand. On his left, Netta, looking literally like 'a rose in June,' and receiving the very marked attentions of Captain Dancy, on one side, and of Mr Rice Rice, junior, on the other. He scarcely knew which was most irritating, 'the idioms,' or her affected giggle. Trite but true is the proverb, 'There is no rose without its thorn;' and Howel was pricked severely by the thorns surrounding the rose of his first step into popularity.

Between the acts, and between the songs, Mrs Griffey went on something in this sort,—

'Indeet yes, sir! treue for you there. The Welsh is a splendit language. My son Howels—there he is to be proving it—do always say so. Ah! that's "The rising of the lark," I was singing that myself years ago. London! to be seure! Now there was singing I was hearing at the play. My son Howels did tak us to the play. I never was hearing or seeing the like in my life. Seure, the Queen Victoria or Prince Albert don't be dressing half as fine as the gentlemen and ladies I was seeing act. The Queen! Oh, Mrs Rice Rice, fach! Ma'am, I was disappointed! Just a bonnet no better than my doater-in-law's. What, sir! a crown? Not 'sactly a crown; but I was 'specting to see a queen different from other people. Hush! I do hear my son Howels cry, "Silence!" and they do be playing "Ap Shenkin." Not so bad that for Wales, Mrs Rice Rice. My son Howels do sing beautiful himself, and do play—Hush! look you at him. He don't like tolking in the music. He, he, he, sir! you do make me laugh. To be seure I don't mean to be marrying again, though men are so much for money. I am thinking you gentlemen 'ould be marrying your grandmothers for the beauty money! Not my son Howels, indeet! He don't be wanting money. He marry his cousin for love. Hush you! There's Pengoch beginning a Penyll! You don't be hearing anything like that in England. Ach a fi! my 'deet, I am sorry. "God save the Queen!" and it don't seem an hour since they began!'

Mrs Jenkins stood up with the rest, and beat time emphatically Scarcely was the last verse of 'God save the Queen' finished, when Howel came up to his mother, and biting his tongue to keep in his ire, said—

'Mother, I will see you safe first!' and without allowing her time to do more than make a curtsey to her companions, offered her his arm, and led her quickly down the room. He did not venture to speak to her, but nodding to one and another as he passed, said, 'I shall be back directly. I am just going to send my mother home first,' reached the door, and called for his carriage. It was close at hand, the hour for ordering the carriages being past; and he speedily put his mother into it. 'Drive Mrs Jenkins home, and return immediately,' he exclaimed.

'Which way, ma'am?' asked the servant.

'Go you down the street, then turn to the right, and the first house with a railing and steps, and a brass knocker,' said Mrs Jenkins, exulting as they drove off in her new dignity and importance. Howel, on the contrary, returned to the concert-room, cursing his folly for having settled in his native county, and wishing his mother anywhere else.

Nevertheless, he received the thanks of the conductor of the concert with bland humility, and expressed his intention of using all his best efforts in behalf of his country and countrymen. Finally he assisted in cloaking and shawling the ladies, seeing them to their carriages, and bidding them condescending good nights.

For himself, however, he had not a good night, being haunted with the demons of jealousy and discontent. As soon as Netta and he were alone, he addressed her in very different tones from those which he had called forth for the ladies of the concert-room.

'Netta, why do you let Dancy pay you such attentions?' he began, with a scowling brow and flashing eye.

'Why does Mme. Duvet let you pay her such attention?' was Netta's instant reply.

Now Netta was too well pleased with herself, and the effect of her beauty on others, to endure being snubbed, and was very angry that Howel was not pleased also.

'Don't be a fool, Netta. You know Madame Duvet is doing all she can to catch Owen.'

'Oh! jealous are you? Well, there were plenty of other ladies who let you pay them attention; why was that I wonder?'

'I tell you what it is, Netta, I won't allow Dancy to devote himself to you as he does.'

'Then you had better tell him so, I ain't going to do it; he's your friend, and if he admires me, I think you ought to be proud of it.'

'You did nothing but flirt and giggle with him all the evening. What with you on one side and my mother on the other, I thought I must have left the room.'

'Giggle, indeed; I don't know what you mean, sir; you never eused to say I giggled.'

'Can't you say used, and not eused, you will never cease to be provincial,'

'Other folks are provincial, I think, besides me. If you said your own mother was provincial, it 'ould be true enough.'

'There again! if you are your own natural self, you leave out all your w's directly; I wish you would be careful, Netta.'

'Well, so do the French. I declare I won't speak again to-night, that I won't, you cross, unnatural, unfeeling fellow; and all because you're jealous of Owen. Madame Duvet says he's the handsomest man she ever saw, and that his beard is enough to win any woman's heart.'

'You had better hold your tongue, I think,' said Howel, stifling a laugh at the idea of Owen's irresistible beard; 'you never say a word of sense.'

'And you never say a kind word,' said Netta, breaking down at that last attack, and beginning to cry.

'Now don't blubber, and let all the house hear you.'

'I wonder whether leaving out a w is half as vulgar as to tell one's wife not to blubber. But I won't speak to you again. I wish I hadn't married you, I do.'

'I wish to heaven you hadn't.'

At this Netta began to sob very much, and Howel softened somewhat, but not sufficiently to make any excuse for his conduct; and Netta went to bed, proud, indignant, and unhappy, and wishing herself back again at Glanyravon.

The next morning, Owen remarked that Netta did not speak to Howel at all, and that she was very reserved and strange in her manner to Captain Dancy. The captain, however, took no notice of the change, but whilst he seemed to converse more than usual with Miss Simpson, anticipated all Netta's wants and wishes with most insinuating tact. Netta, with her changing colour, and half-pettish, half-shy manner, was still more attractive than Netta affected and silly. Owen thought that Howel felt this, for he went behind her chair, and put his hand on her shoulder, whilst he asked for some more sugar in his tea. Netta's lips pouted, but her eyes brightened as she said in a half whisper, 'You're sweeter than you were, Howel.'

Howel excused the common-place allusion to the sugar, in consideration of the bright face that looked up at him, and so the storm lulled for the present.

This was Owen's fourth day at Abertewey, and it was a facsimile of the second, with the exception that Mr and Miss Simpson and Mr Deep did not go to the dinner-party to which the rest went, at a neighbouring country house, so Owen had company at dinner, and was ordered by Netta to do the honours.

Miss Simpson refused to play whist, and Owen declined billiards, so whilst Mr Deep got as much money as he could out of Mr Simpson, Owen devoted himself and his captivating beard to Miss Simpson.

In the course of conversation that young lady informed him that she and her brother intended leaving Abertewey the following week, and that she supposed the rest of the party would soon follow for the Ascot Races, and she hoped Owen would join them; she was sure her papa and mamma would be very glad to see him. She also let out that her brother, Captain Dancy, and Howel had heavy bets on the different horses that were to run, and that she expected there would be great excitement. As to Mr Deep, nobody quite knew what he did, he was so very reserved and quiet.

Owen stayed on at Abertewey day after day, he scarcely knew why. In the first place, he was very well amused, and liked his quarters. In the second, his new friends all liked him; the women for his good looks and open-hearted civility, the men, because he took his own course and did not interfere with them, and was a very amusing fellow besides. In the third place, he stayed on because he felt anxious about Howel and Netta and their way of beginning life. He had been a man careless of money himself all his days, but he had been, as the saying goes, no one's enemy but his own—he feared that Howel might turn out, not only his own foe but the foe of others, since he perceived that the propensities of his unmonied youth were strengthening and maturing in his monied manhood. He had no opinion of any man who would fleece another, and he saw that Howel and Mr Deep were preying upon the simple, conceited Mr Simpson, and the careless, lavish Sir Samuel Spendall. As to Mr Deep, he watched his opportunity of outwitting either of the four as it offered.

Saturday came and passed, as usual, in visiting and gambling. A good many of the sporting men of the country called to see Howel's famous race-horse, Campaigner, in training for the St Leger, and to indulge in a little of the sporting gossip of the day, whilst their womankind indulged in more general, and equally intellectual, country gossip. Some of the young men stayed to dinner, and when Miss Simpson had duly played her waltzes, and Netta had gone through her French songs, vingt-et-un was proposed.

Owen took his customary place by Madame Duvet, and played his usual game. But he had not the luck of the previous evening, and soon lost the five pounds he then won, and very nearly the little he possessed besides. When he knew that he was within a few shillings of bankruptcy he said,—

'I am very sorry to leave such agreeable society, but if I play any more I shall never get to sea. Look at my purse!' holding it up and shaking it, 'it is very nearly empty.'

'Luck will change,' said Madame Duvet. 'You shall go partners with me,' pointing to a large heap of money and counters.

'I should be only too happy if I could bring anything to the bank, said Owen; 'but I am too proud to be a penniless partner.'

'You need only bring yourself,' said Madame Duvet, lowering her voice, and giving such a glance from a pair of fine black eyes as few men could have withstood.

Perhaps Owen would have yielded to it, for he was by no means a hero, had not a sudden vision of Gladys passed before his mind, followed by one of his mother, just as he had seen her when she bade him that last solemn good-night only the Tuesday in that very week. How the vision came he knew not, nor did he pause to ask; but it gave him strength to resist the temptation to begin regular gambling, a vice he had hitherto steadily avoided.