The answering glance and the quick blush were quite satisfactory.

'Then, will you come with me to father and Netta. We owe it all to her—poor dear Netta!'

'Please to wipe my frock first,' said Minette to her grandmother; 'and tell me if uncle is going to marry Gladys. I am so glad.'

The frock was wiped, and Owen took the child up in his arms, and told her to love her new aunt better than ever.

'I can't love her better, uncle,' was the simple assurance of the little girl.

'Nor can I, even as my daughter,' said Mrs Prothero, pressing the hand she held with a mother's love.

They all went to the parlour, where Mr Prothero and Netta were sitting, quite silent, by the fire-light.

Owen led Gladys to his father, who did not well know what to do on the occasion, not being quite satisfied with the respectability of the parentage of his future daughter-in-law.

Gladys summoned all her courage, and standing before Mr Prothero, said firmly,—

'You will be glad, sir, to know that I have found my friends, and that they acknowledge me as their relation. I could never have consented to bring disgrace upon you and yours. I do not think I could have accepted your present great kindness even, had I not been able to make my truth as clear as the noon-day. Mr Jones, with whom Miss Gwynne and I have been living so long, is my uncle—my mother's own brother.'

The general exclamations of surprise may be imagined.

'The girl's dreaming, like Netta,' from Mr Prothero.

'Why didn't you tell me before?' from Owen.

'I knew she was true,' from Mrs Prothero.

'How can this be, Gladys?' from Netta.

Gladys told her story simply. Every one was too much engrossed with it, to think of the pretty picture that wondering family group made; but as we know it already, we will look at the picture whilst she is telling her tale.

The large, old-fashioned sofa is placed at one side of the fire-place, its head against the wall, its foot towards the window, so as to give Netta warmth and the view of the distant hills at the same time. Between the head of the sofa and the fire-place is an arm-chair, also against the wall, Mr Prothero's favourite seat; and Minette's footstool is by the side of her mother, and at the feet of her grandfather.

Netta's pale face is in shadow, but the large, bright black eyes beam upon Gladys, with preternatural lustre, and the raven hair shines against the white pillow that supports her head. The broad, massive figure of the father, in its rough work-a-day clothes, is also in shadow. One elbow rests upon the arm of Netta's sofa, one hand smooths mechanically the head of his grandchild, resting against his knee. This large hand and that tender head come within the glow of the fire-light. His grey head is lifted towards Gladys, on whom his keen black eyes, so like Netta's, are also fixed. Minette, too, sitting at his feet, gazes with child-like wonder on Gladys; her long black curls falling over her pale face. Grandsire, daughter, child, so like one another, and yet so far apart in age. Three types they are of the ancient Briton.

Opposite this trio, with her left hand clasped in that of Netta, and close to her sofa, stands the fair, blue-eyed, graceful Gladys; thoroughly Irish in beauty, if Welsh in heart. The red glare of the large bright fire brings out her sweet, earnest face, and slight form. Her eyes are cast down, as if they cannot support the gaze of so many other eyes, and her cheeks are flushed with a strange excitement. Towering a full head above her, his arm round her waist, the thick black beard touching her hair is the manly, handsome Owen. Love, joy, pride, in his honest black eyes, and health on his bronzed and ruddy cheeks. Seated on the sofa, her arms on Netta's knees, her head, with its silver hair, and plain white lace cap, eagerly pressed forward, is the well-beloved mother. For the first time since Netta's return, grief for the one child, has merged into joy for the other, and prayer and praise for all are in her heart even whilst she listens.

The story is told, Gladys raises her eyes and head somewhat proudly for her. Owen lowers his, and kisses the pure, white forehead. There is silence for a few moments, no one can speak for tears. Owen is the first.

'Well, father! all's right now, at any rate.'

'Treue for you there, Owen, my boy. The only objection is removed; everybody will know now that Gladys was honest, God bless you both, and make you happy.'

At this moment there was a suppressed sob from Netta. Her mind had wandered from the open, straightforward betrothal of Owen and Gladys, crowned, after years of difficulty, with a father's and mother's blessing, to her own unhallowed marriage—to her lost husband.

Again poor Netta was the object of every one's thoughts, Gladys forgot herself, and Owen his joy, to cheer and comfort her.

It was in private that Mrs Prothero poured out her feelings to Gladys, and assured her of her unbounded satisfaction in the prospect of such a daughter. It was also in private that Netta solemnly gave her child into Gladys' care. She said,—

'If I die, Gladys, you are to be her mother. You are to bring her up; she is never to leave you. If Howel comes back, say to him this was my wish. But I will write it for him. You must teach her to love her father, and to pray for him; and when she is old enough to be firm in her duty, to go to him if he wishes it. But never let Aunt 'Lizbeth have her—never. I must see Aunt 'Lizbeth, I must tell her my wishes myself; you must talk to her, Gladys; she must not have my child if I die.'

Owen and Minette went together to see poor Mrs Griffey. They found her much altered. Owen could scarcely recognise the brisk, handsomely-dressed Aunt 'Lizbeth who came to announce her son's gay wedding to Mrs Prothero, in that son's mother, as stricken by his crime. Moreover, there was a very strong smell of spirits in the room, and Owen perceived a bottle and glass, that had been hastily put aside, under a table in the corner.

Mrs Jenkins cried a great deal when she saw Minette, and Owen was soon very sorry that he had brought the child. However he told her to go to a small inner room, the window of which looked into the street, and her attention was soon quite absorbed. Her grandmother was in a maudlin condition, out of which, under any other circumstances, Owen would have extracted mirth, but now he only felt anger and sorrow.

'Have you heard anything of Howel, Aunt 'Lizbeth?' he asked.

'Oh, annwyl! No. Mr Rice Rice is telling me there is a 'ditement brought against him for forgery, and now they can be taking him anywhere, and bringing him to trial as soon as they do find him. Forgery! name o' goodness, why 'ould he be forging, as I do say to every one, and his own mother as 'ould be giving him thousands of pounds. My Howels! Ach a fi! for sham to them! But he 'ont be found guilty, if they do tak him. Owen, bach! it was killing me, 'deet to goodness it was,'

'Don't cry, Aunt 'Lizbeth, I wanted to speak to you about Netta.'

'Oh seure! she 'ont come to see her husband's mother! and I don't be cheusing to be turned out of doors again.'

'She is very ill, aunt. We don't know whether she can ever recover. Her mind is wandering, and has been ever since that—Howel left her; she thinks he is gone for debt, and if she knew the real state of the case, it would probably be the death of her. If we could manage a meeting between you, could you speak only of Howel's debts, and not of this terrible suspicion.'

'Seurely I could; but I 'ont go to Glanyravon; if your father was turning me out of doors then, what will he be doing now?'

'We must see, Aunt 'Lizbeth? poor Netta sends her love to you, and begs you to keep up; she says she is sure Howel will come back; I was to tell you this.'

'Netta! Netta! poor dear, poor dear.'

Mrs Jenkins began to rock herself to and fro in her chair violently, and to cry hysterically.

'He was very fond of her, Owen; you don't think she'll be dying? I do be wishing all day long that she hadn't gone off with him, and that my Griffey hadn't left all that money—and—and—tak you a glass of brandy and water, Owen, it will be warming you after your cold walk, and I do feel so poorly and wretched all over, that I'll be having a drop along.'

'No thank you, aunt, we must be going; what of the counsel for Howel?'

'Oh, I do be having the best in all London; Prince Albert or Queen Victoria 'ouldn't be having a better; to think of him as was dining with them wanst.'

'Don't believe such nonsense, Aunt 'Lizbeth.'

'Was you thinking that my Howels is not telling the treuth? But I am seure they 'ont be finding him; they was telling me that America, where they do think he is gone, is bigger than all Wales, and England, and London put together. Oh, if I could be going to him, I 'ouldn't be vexing shocking, as I was now. All that money that my Griffey was putting by in pence and sixpences and shillings all gone, and he no better, and Howels no better, and I no better, 'scept that I did be seeing London. Come you, Owen, tak you a drop of brandy and water. I do tak it very kind of you to be coming to see me.'

'What message shall I give Netta, Aunt 'Lizbeth?'

'Give you her my love, and I'll be seeing her whenever she do like. Tell you her that Howels shall be having every penny his poor old mother do own to set him right again; he'll be seure to be proving himself right, come you. Them Simpsons and Spendalls were always living upon him, and now to be turning against him. Ach a fi! now do be taking a drop before you do go.'

'No thank you, Aunt 'Lizbeth; and I don't think spirits good for you. You had better be careful.'

'I don't be drinking a wine glass full in a week, but when I am having the spasms, and now I am vexing so, they was coming oftener than they was eused to.'

Owen left Mrs Jenkins with a heavy heart, foreseeing her end; Minette said she didn't like her because she smelt so of wine, and wasn't a lady.

The next day but one Gladys went to see her, and did what she could to comfort and help her; she was used to all sorts of sorrow and sin, and was so gentle a consoler, and so Christian an adviser, that poor Mrs Jenkins asked her to come and stay with her always; but that could not be; she went, however, as often as she could leave Netta.

Netta's will and word was now law with her father; he refused her nothing; he even allowed her to see her mother-in-law, provided the meeting was managed when he was from home. It was so managed, and a melancholy meeting it proved; the old woman's tears and sobs were so irrepressible, that Gladys was obliged to shorten it as much as possible; Netta, however, was calmer than she expected.

'Mother,' she said, 'I want you to promise me one thing. If I die—'

'Oh, Netta, fach! why was you talking of dying? you 'ont be dying.'

'I said if, mother. I wish Gladys, who is going to marry Owen—'

'Gladys, Owen! name o' goodness! and your father! he 'ouldn't let you marry my Howels, and she—'

'Is very good, mother, whilst I am very bad. But I wish her and Owen to bring up my child; you must tell Howel so, when he comes back; and when she is grown up, she will be a comfort to you and him. My head is confused; I dreamt last night Howel was here, and he was going to take away Minette. Is he with you, mother? tell me! do you know where he is? Oh! if I could see him once more! once more!'

'He is being safe in America, Netta, fach, but is coming home soon I am thinking. Don't you be dying; he was doating upon you, and if he do come home, and don't be finding you, he'll be dying too.'

'Are you sure he will come back? Did he tell you so himself?'

'To be seure. He is coming back soon, only he must be paying his debts first. Come you!'

Mrs Jenkins' unmitigated falsehoods did Netta a great deal of good; they cheered her, and gave her hope for the time. Gladys doubted whether hopes so based, and to be so miserably crushed, were to be encouraged, but she had not the heart to undeceive her.

When Mr Prothero returned home that evening, he was surprised to see Netta looking so much more cheerful than she had done since her return.

'Better, much better,' was her answer to his eager look of inquiry. 'And now I am better, I have another favour to ask. I want to see Owen and Gladys married while I am here. I think it would almost cure me to feel that I had helped to do one kind and right thing in my wrong life. Would you mind it, father?'

'I shall be very glad to see them married, my dear; the sooner the better. Owen's good-for-nothing now but sitting with his arm round Gladys' waist all day long, and I hate those sort of follies.'

'Oh! Davy,' said Mrs Prothero, 'young people will be young people, and I'm sure no one can be so modest as Gladys,'

'Well, I'm of Netta's opinion, and the sooner they're married the better. I must confess, now I know who Gladys is, there isn't a girl in all the country I like so well. And Mr and Mrs Jones have written as a gentleman and lady ought to write, owning her, and giving their free consent to her marrying our Owen. So, Netta, fach, if you can get the young folk's consent you have mine.'

Owen and Gladys had accompanied Mrs Jenkins part of the way home. She had particularly asked Gladys to 'send her,' and as it was getting dusk, Owen had 'sent her' also. They returned during the conversation respecting their marriage and Mr Prothero who had forgotten, if he had ever experienced, the shyness of affianced lovers, began the subject at once.

'Netta wants you two young people to be married directly, so do I. I shall be glad when 'tis all over. What do you say to it?'

They had nothing to say, Gladys blushed, and Owen felt awkward on her account, not his own.

'There, I always said that lovers were fools,' said Mr Prothero.

'We will settle it another time,' said Netta.

'Go you and settle it directly,' said Mr Prothero; 'what my little girl here says, is law in this house.'

Poor Netta always began to cry when her father said anything particularly kind. She did so now. There was a reaction on her spirits, and she suddenly became as depressed as she had previously been gay. The constantly recurring contrasts between herself and Gladys continually affected her, and her father's readiness for the marriage reminded her of the scenes between him and herself previously to her own.

The topic was given up for that evening, but the following morning Netta renewed it with Owen, who declared himself ready to marry Gladys that very moment.

The upshot of it all was, that the wedding was settled for New Year's Day, at Netta's particular request. No one cared, or indeed thought what the world would say at a marriage taking place during a period of such heavy affliction. Netta willed it, and to give her pleasure, and an object for her poor wandering mind, every member of the family would have made any sacrifice; and this was not a sacrifice at all, but an event of importance to all.

Mr and Mrs Jones promised to come if only for one clear day, and sent a box of presents to their niece, which Netta had the pleasure of unpacking. Amongst them was a simple and pretty wedding dress and bonnet, that poor Netta wept over, thinking of her own.

On the whole, however, Netta was better and more cheerful, and even assisted in the preparations that were going forward. She helped to make that pretty dove-coloured silk dress that was manufactured at home, and tried to join in the happiness which her apparently improved health seemed to make allowable.

But Netta's heart was with Howel, and the certainty that she felt of his return and constant love, alone sustained her. Alas! that poor, fluttering, uncertain heart!



CHAPTER XLVI.

THE HEIR.

Miss Gwynne returned to Glanyravon on Christmas Eve. She had not visited it before, since she left it when her father married. She had seen her father, his wife, and her little brother almost yearly in London, whither Lady Mary Nugent insisted on dragging her husband annually; but she had not hitherto had love, or courage, or Christian charity enough to visit them at home. When last in town, and repeatedly by letter, her father had urged her doing so, and she had at last complied with his request, more from a latent sense of duty than from inclination.

It was a bright, frosty night, when the carriage that had been sent to meet her drove up to the door. If poor Netta had fainted on returning to the farm, Freda was obliged to brush away gathering tears as she returned to the Park. Every branch of tree, as it glittered in the moonlight in its dress of hoar frost, was familiar to her, every pane of glass in the windows of the old place seemed a friend.

On the lowest step, bare-headed and expectant, were the old butler and footman she had left when she went away; she shook hands with each, and they almost rung her hand off. In the door-way stood her father, not bare-headed, but expectant, who received her with paternal warmth. Freda knew that he must for once have forgotten himself and his nervous debility to have thus exposed himself to the frosty air. In the hall was Lady Mary ready with smiles and embraces, with which Freda would gladly have dispensed; but she did her best to seem, if she could not feel, glad to see her.

Her ladyship preceded her to her own old bedroom, where a huge fire, and bright wax candles bade her welcome, and whither she was followed by Frisk, who was exuberant in his demonstrations of delight at his return home after his long absence.

'I have ordered my maid to wait on you my dear,' said Freda's stepmother, 'because I find your's does not return to you. But we can replace her. Dinner will be ready whenever you are; can I do anything for you?'

'No, thank you, I shall not be long,' said Freda mechanically.

Lady Mary left the room.

Freda felt that her tact was good after all; for no nice feeling could have been more successful than it was. She had received her just as if she had come home after a short absence. No demonstrations of any kind; her room was much as it had ever been. There were even some of her clothes in the wardrobe.

'I won't cry! I won't give way!' muttered Freda, beginning to take off her wrappings.

There was a tap at the door.

'Come in!' And Anne the old housemaid appeared.

'Oh, miss, I am so glad to see you home again, it do seem so natural. Please to let me unpack your things, miss. My lady thought you might like me better than Mrs Pink.'

'Thank you, Anne, it does look like home to see you.'

'Shall I get your dress, miss?'

'I can't dress to-night, I am too tired. There, that will do. Now I will go downstairs.'

She did so, and found her father alone in the library.

'I won't cry,' again she said, as she kissed him affectionately.

'Thank you for coming, Freda, it will do me good, and my wife is delighted. Harold, too, is in ecstasies, and only went to bed with a promise that sister Freda—he calls you sister, you know, and—and all that sort of thing.'

The 'my wife,' grated strangely on Freda's ear, but she promised to go and see her little brother.

Lady Mary came in, and they went to dinner.

It seemed strange to see her at the head of the table, and Freda felt as if she were in a dream. But nothing could be more perfect than her ladyship's manner. She behaved as if nothing had ever happened to cause the least estrangement between them, and almost as if she were still Lady Mary Nugent. Handsome as ever, and perfectly well-bred, she almost made even Freda believe, after her long absence from her, that she really was what she seemed. However, Freda tried to take her as she was, and to feel thankful that she was no worse. It was she who principally kept up the conversation; Freda made great efforts, and signally failed, and Mr Gwynne never talked much.

After dinner, Freda proposed to go and see the little brother. As she looked at the magnificent boy who lay peacefully sleeping in his little crib, she was thankful to be able to kiss him, and say, 'God bless you, my brother,' without feeling angered that he had deprived her of the inheritance she had once been so proud of. She knew that Lady Mary was watching her narrowly, but there was no hypocrisy in her affection, so she did not care.

They went down to the library, where were Mr Gwynne, tea and coffee.

'Is he not a splendid fellow, my dear?' said Mr Gwynne.

'He certainly is, papa,' replied Freda, aloud, saying inwardly, 'and everything with you now. I am quite second—third I ought to say.'

This was true; Mr Gwynne was proud of his wife and son. The former took care of him, and did not greatly interfere with his pursuits or peculiarities, the latter gave him new life and hopes. An heir in his old age was a gift that might well exceed that of the daughter who could not perpetuate his name.

Freda was glad when she went to bed, which she did as soon as tea was over. It was a great relief to sit down once more in the easy-chair which had helped to nurse so many crude fancies and humours in days gone by, and think over the past and present. There was an atmosphere of unreality about everything at Glanyravon, that she hoped to clear off on the morrow, so she resolved to try not to feel depressed under its influence; but having once known what it was to enjoy living with real, working men and women, with aims beyond the formalities of society, it seemed hard to be thrown back upon the cold worldliness of her stepmother, and the selfish nervousness of her father.

She was, however, aroused on the blessed morning of Christmas Day by something that was very real.

'A merry Kismas, sister Freda,' shouted a sharp little voice into her ear, and before her eyes were half opened brisk little feet were stamping at her bedside, and the same voice authoritatively enouncing, 'Put me up, Dane, I 'ull be put up.'

'I beg your pardon, miss,' said the nurse, who stood in the doorway, 'but Master Harold would come, and my lady isn't up, and—'

'Never mind, let him in,' said Freda, sitting up in bed, and opening her arms to receive the rosy, wilful, handsome child, who did not know how he had supplanted her.

'A merry Kismas!' he repeated, returning Freda's kisses by pulling off her night-cap, and letting down her long hair before she knew what he was about. 'Now, I'll dive 'ou to Tewey.'

'Master Harold! don't, sir!' said the nurse.

But Master Harold was jumping on the pillow behind his sister, making reins of her hair and horses of her head in no very gentle fashion.

'I sha'n't give you what I brought you from London if you pull my hair,' said Freda, catching the bare, firm, sturdy leg of the small tyrant who called her sister.

'Is it soldiers?' asked the child, suddenly tumbling down before her.

She caught the little fellow in her arms, and told him that if he would go away whilst she dressed he should have the present. After some demur he consented, having first informed Freda that ''ittle Minnie, and Winnie, and Dot, and baby' were all coming to dinner.

'A family party!' groaned Freda, when the child was carried away by its nurse, 'myself the only rightful member of the family, and probably the only one who will feel as if she doesn't belong to it.'

Freda got up and looked out upon the fine park and the hills beyond. She sighed involuntarily.

'Why should I sigh,' she said. 'I am happier than when it was my home,—happier, and, I hope, more useful. My father doesn't want me,'—here she paused. Perhaps that father really did want her, for she, at least, loved him, and his wife did not; and she was beginning to be conscious, daily more and more conscious, of the exceeding preciousness of love.

Breakfast passed, with the same effort to feel at home on her part, and attempt to keep up a conversation on that of Lady Mary, as had the dinner of the previous day.

Harold made a diversion by bursting into the room to ask for his soldiers. He, at least, was quite natural, and entirely spoilt.

Immediately after breakfast they drove to church. It was delightful to Freda to see the good vicar in the reading-desk, and his wife in the pew beneath. She felt at home again for the first time. For the first time, also, she really listened to the worthy man's somewhat dry sermon, and strove to feel 'in charity with all men' on that blessed day. She thought once or twice of a sermon Rowland had preached that day twelvemonth, which riveted the attention of his large congregation, and made her wonder whence he had received the gift, by half-an-hour's plain eloquent preaching, of opening the heart to receive truths hitherto more understood than felt. Rowland had become to her, and many, the type of a preacher and minister of the Gospel, and to him she owed, under God, the fuller enlightenment and enlargement of her own mind.

After the service was over she went into the vicarage. Here, again, she was at home. She had much to tell Mrs Prothero of the kindness of Sir Philip Payne Perry and his wife to her, and many messages to deliver from them. She had also to hear Mr and Mrs Jonathan's opinion of Netta, and of the approaching wedding. She avoided any word that could recall Howel.

'I hope you are not displeased with the match?' said Freda.

'By no means,' was Mrs Jonathan's reply. 'I always thought Gladys very superior, and her turning out to be Mr Jones' niece removes our only objection. It is quite a romance!'

'She is a clever young woman,' said Mr Jonathan. 'I was surprised the other day to find how much history she knew. As to Wales, she has it by heart, and is not wholly unacquainted with the antiquities of the country. It was quite a pleasure for me, Miss Gwynne, I assure you, to meet with any one who took so much interest in ancient lore. And now she is to be one of the family she is so much more at her ease. Actually asked me, of her own accord, of the fossils in the Park quarry, and a very acute question concerning the lords of the marches. She even knew that her name, Gladys, meant Claudia, and that the original Gladys is, probably, the very Claudia mentioned by St Paul.'

'We shall all be thrown into the shade now, Mrs Prothero,' said Freda, laughing. 'Gladys will evidently be the favourite.'

'I am afraid I must break up your conversation, my love,' interrupted Lady Mary. 'You can drive or ride over to finish it when you like.'

On their way home her ladyship remarked,—

'I suppose this unfortunate discovery concerning Mr Howel Jenkins will quite ruin Mr. Rowland Prothero's position in London society?'

'He is scarcely in what is called "society;" but his friends are not likely to be changed by the conduct of his brother-in-in-law. He is far too highly esteemed and admired to be injured by such a man as Howel Jenkins.'

Freda felt the blood rush to her cheeks, and was convinced that Lady Mary noticed it.

'I am glad to hear you say so, my dear,' said Mr Gwynne. 'He is a great favourite of mine, and I should be sorry to think his prospects were injured. They are a rising family. His brother is very much thought of, and improving his own and my property amazingly. A most energetic young man, and so amusing, that he almost kills me whenever I see him. I am glad he is going to marry that pretty Gladys.'

When they arrived at home they found the party from Abertewey ready to receive them,—at least, Mrs Gwynne Vaughan and her children. The colonel was to join them at dinner.

'Oh, Freda, dear, I am tho glad you are come home again!' lisped Mrs Gwynne Vaughan. 'Tho ith Gwynne. He thaith it will be delightful to have you. Thith ith little Gwynne, and thith ith Minnie, and we call thith one Dot, and baby ith in the nurthery. You thall thee her by-and-by. Kith Aunt Freda, Minnie,—they all call you Aunt Freda, you know.'

Freda, not at all rejoicing in the honour, stooped to kiss all the pretty little children by turns, and had soon made friends with them all. The children were the greatest possible relief to her; she turned to them as a sort of neutral ground between the war in her own heart and the tact and inanity of her stepmother and stepsister.

The latter was as unchanged as the former. Very handsome, very fashionably dressed, very good-tempered,—in short, Miss Nugent simply turned into Mrs Vaughan. Freda wondered how the really clever and agreeable Colonel Vaughan could live with so dull a companion.

Having got through luncheon and the afternoon somehow, thanks to the children, the dinner-hour arrived, and therewith the colonel. Freda always felt reserved with him, and his studied kindness and politeness to her when she had met him occasionally in London, irritated her. She had spoken to him before his marriage so unreservedly of his wife, and had given him to understand so unmistakably that she knew what had passed between him and Gladys, that she fancied he must at heart cordially dislike her. Moreover, she had loved him. Much as she despised herself now for having done so, she knew it, and she despised him all the more on that account.

There was, however, no mistaking the real warmth of his welcome, and for the moment—only for the moment—Freda's heart beat quick.

'I am so glad to see you, Freda,—sister Freda, you know, now,—and looking so well.'

'Yeth, ith'nt the looking well. I think the lookth younger than when the went away.'

'Handsomer, at any rate. I may pay you a compliment, now, Freda.'

Freda could not return it. Colonel Vaughan looked more than six years older since his marriage, and there was a dissatisfied expression on his countenance very different from the old suavity.

Freda was not long in discovering that if he had improved his fortune by marriage he had not improved his temper, or increased his happiness. Fortunately for his wife, her imperturbable placidity and want of acute feeling prevented her from appropriating many hard hits from her husband that would have made Freda wretched.

Again, she admired the tact of the mother. By it she managed her husband admirably, and retained her power over him in precisely the same way as she did before she married him; while Wilhelmina wholly lost what little she had gained over hers prior to her marriage. Her silliness annoyed him continually, and her beauty, for want of expression, palled upon his fastidious taste.

Freda's contempt very soon turned to pity. The handsome, fascinating, deceitful colonel was amply indemnified for all the hearts he had broken, and those broken hearts fully avenged by the tedium of his home life.

Of course, Freda did not discover all this during that one Christmas Day, but it developed itself during her subsequent stay at Glanyravon.

'We did not ask any one else to dinner to-day, Gwynne,' said Mr Gwynne, 'because we thought Freda would like to have us alone, you know, and see the children, and—and all that sort of thing.'

'I hope Freda enjoys a family-party better than I do,' said the colonel, looking at her as he spoke. 'Of all things on earth, it is the slowest.'

'Complimentary,' said Lady Mary.

'Oh! Gwynne ith alwayth tho fond of thaying what he dothn't mean. He often doth to me, don't you, my dear? But I don't mind, becauth I underthtand him now.'

Freda looked at Mrs Vaughan to see if she spoke ironically. Not at all. She fully believed what she said. Colonel Vaughan saw the glance, and smiling, said,—

'All in good faith, I assure you.'

Freda blushed, and to turn the conversation, began to talk to him of his children, and to praise their beauty. He smiled again, as perfectly understanding her ruse.

'People call them loves and angels!' he said, 'and even go into raptures over the baby. For my part, I never look at them when they are babies. Indeed, I don't like children, and all ours are so spoilt. Wilhelmina doesn't know how to manage them, and now their governess is away, the house is like a lunatic asylum.'

'Oh, Gwynne, how abthurd you are! He ith tho fond of them, Freda, you can't think, and they are thuch little dearth.'

'I was greatly amused,' said Freda, 'to hear Minnie call Harold "uncle," just now; and he seemed not a little proud of his dignity.'

'Surely, Freda, you haven't learnt to talk baby talk!' said Colonel Vaughan. 'You used to eschew such twaddle.'

'It was time for me to learn to like a great many things that I professed to hate. I hope I am improved since I was here last. But I always liked children.'

'Oh! Harold is so fond of her,' said Mr Gwynne. 'He is a wonderful boy.'

Here followed a history of various achievements of Harold, during which Colonel Vaughan vainly endeavoured to catch Freda's eye. She was only too well-disposed to smile at the infatuation of the doating father.

'Here are the children, I think,' said Lady Mary.

In bounded Harold, and jumped, unbidden, on Freda's lap.

'I ull have some of that—and that,' said Harold.

'And I will have—' began Minnie.

'You will have nothing if you ask for it,' said the colonel with a frown.

His little trio were quiet in a moment.

'Ganpapa, take me up,' said Dot, creeping round to Mr Gwynne.

Freda felt her blood creep at that word 'Grandpapa,' and also felt the colonel's glance. He seemed to take a pleasure in watching every expression of her countenance, and it did, unfortunately, always convey her feelings to the watcher.

Freda had never passed so uncomfortable a dinner since the day when the present Mrs Vaughan came of age. Probably she was the only one of the party who was conscious of Colonel Vaughan's changed manner and temper, because it was new to her, and she could scarcely believe him to be himself. Her father was wrapped up in his boy—his wife's attention was divided between him and the other children, and Mrs Vaughan smiled and lisped on all by turns.

Freda thought of old times, when her father and herself were so happy together; and then she thought of the last Christmas day in London, when Mr and Mrs Jones, Rowland, and herself dined late off a Glanyravon Park turkey, having first feasted as many poor people as the kitchen would hold, on geese from Glanyravon Farm. Certainly the comparison with her present companions was 'odious' to her.

Freda scarcely knew which was worst—the riotous, untameable spirits of Harold, who did and said what he liked, unchecked either by father or mother, or the cowed and altered manner of the other children in the presence of their father; they, too, had been noisy enough before he arrived.

'It was very good of you to come to-day, Gwynne,' said Lady Mary; 'I scarcely expected you, knowing how you dislike this frosty weather.'

'Freda is attraction enough to draw off the frost, though she has become so much better than her neighbours. Wilhelmina, my dear, why do you let Minnie stuff her mouth so full of orange? The child will choke.'

The dinner came to an end at last, and the children went to bed. Freda played and sung some sacred music at Colonel Vaughan's request, and he complimented her on her improvement, and said he wished his wife played and sung as well, because music was such a resource in a dull country place.

'I suppose you have practised a great deal since you have been in London?' he said.

'Mrs Jones and I play and sing whenever we have time, and I have had some lessons,' replied Freda. 'Besides, one hears all the first musicians and singers, and they teach one.'

'Did you see much of that young parson, Prothero? I remember he was somewhere in your neighbourhood,' asked the colonel.

Freda was sure this question was a feeler, and she answered carelessly,—

'Yes, naturally. He is Mr Jones' brother curate.'

'Now confess, you didn't like those people, and that sort of life? You must have been ennuyee from morning to night.'

'On the contrary, the days were not half long enough.'

'Freda!' exclaimed Mrs Vaughan, 'I get tho tired, and tho doth the colonel, before half the evening ith over.'

'Some one else seems in the same condition,' said Freda. 'Papa is fast asleep.'

'And mamma nearly,' said Mrs Vaughan. 'And I am tho tired. I think Chrithmath dayth are very dull. One dothn't know what to do.'

'That isn't peculiar to Christmas days in your year,' said the colonel, sarcastically; 'but I suppose we had better go to bed. I hope we shall be more amusing to-morrow, Freda. All your old friends, the constant Sir Hugh amongst them, are invited to meet you. Let me light your candle. Remember, I always used to do that, when we had our snug evenings together such an age ago.'

'Yeth, he often talkth of you, Freda, and thayth you were thuch good company.'

Freda heard Colonel Vaughan sigh, and thought, as she said 'good-night,' and hastened upstairs, that she ought to be thankful that the imperturbable and dull Wilhelmina Nugent had been the choice of that discontented and irritable colonel, instead of the quick-tempered, independent Winifred Gwynne.



CHAPTER XLVII.

THE DAUGHTER-IN-LAW.

New Year's Day dawned under the influence of a bright sun, and a clear, frosty atmosphere. The old year was dead and buried with all his griefs and joys; his son and heir came forward smiling, to begin his career of times and seasons, clouds and sunbeams.

With him, Owen and Gladys were to commence their united lives. An auspicious morning ushered in this, their bridal day, and the year's birthday. Nature had put on all her jewels in honour of the joint festivities. Her very tears were turned into diamonds that sparkled on her capacious breast, neck, and arms, more brilliantly than stomachers, necklaces and bracelets of gems, on the courtiers of an Indian monarch.

Truly, as the fair and gentle Gladys drove through the roads and lanes that led from the farm to the church, the hedge-rows sparkled with these brilliants, and her very pathway was strewn with them. Attired in that Quaker-like garb of dove-colour and white, her soft cheek tinged as from the sun, her eyes cast down in modest shyness, and her heart beating with quiet happiness, she seemed a fitting bride to wait upon that heir of so many by-gone generations.

And assuredly a happier never drove to a church to meet her expectant bridegroom, her hand clasped lovingly between the kindly palms of her future mother, sitting by her side; and the affectionate glances of her uncle and aunt cast upon her from the opposite seat. She felt as if it were all a dream. She, the Irish beggar—the friendless—the wanderer—the orphan!

And now so honoured! All whom she most cared for in the world, with the exception of Rowland, were assembled in that village church to meet her. There were Owen and his father—Miss Gwynne and Minette—Mr and Mrs Jonathan Prothero.

Gentleness, gratitude and simple merit, were, for once rewarded, even in this world.

The kind and worthy Uncle Jonathan—so soon to be her uncle—married her. Her own uncle gave her, with prayers and blessings, to him whom she had loved so long and truly—her former mistress, now her fast friend, and another mistress's grandchild, were her bridesmaids.

If a tear gathered in her eye, it was a tear of joy; and there, at the altar, amongst all those to whom she was henceforth to be united by the ties of relationship, she inwardly vowed to devote herself to their happiness, and to the fulfilment of the promises she was making to him who would be one with her for ever.

The churchyard was full of spectators, as the proud and happy Owen led his bride through it to the vicarage, and the general opinion was, that there had never been married so handsome a couple in the church of Llanfach.

The bells and the sunbeams rang out and shone out together, and all the wedding-party forgot their private sorrows in the joy of the moment.

Even Netta, who had been taken to the vicarage for the occasion, received them with one of her old bright smiles. She threw her arms round Gladys, and called her 'sister.'

'My sister,' she said more than once emphatically.

And if tears would, from time to time, spring into her eyes, as she contrasted herself with Gladys, she brushed them away, and did her best not to cast a shadow from her grief, on the brightness of a brother and sister's joy. That little drawing-room at the vicarage contained as pretty and pleasant a group as could well be seen, of which Owen and Gladys formed the centre figures.

'Now, my good girl, let me give you a real kiss,' said honest Mr Prothero, 'and tell you that I am proud of my daughter. Mother, what do you say?'

'I say, thank God for all His mercies,' said quiet Mrs Prothero, shaking Gladys' hand, which she seemed loath to part with.

If there is a great variety of character and feeling displayed in shaking hands, there assuredly is, also, in kissing. Gladys experienced it in that same little drawing-room, where she submitted her blushing cheeks to all sorts of impressions.

Mr Prothero gave her three very hearty smacks, which resounded through the room, and seemed to say at once, 'I am your father; his wife's embrace was quieter, but more tender. Mrs Jonathan stooped majestically, and imprinted her lips patronisingly on the forehead, as much as to say, 'I receive you into the family of the Payne Perrys, since you are respectably connected.' Mrs Jones kissed her on the lips, and said, 'God bless you, my dear.' Miss Gwynne, who hated kissing, and did not consider herself one of the family, looked on, but took no active part. Was that pride? she asked herself afterwards, and the answer was, 'Yes.' As to Mr Jones, his embrace made Owen exclaim, 'It is well I know you are her uncle now. I was as jealous as could be when you kissed her in London.' Minette's embrace was a long hug, and when the vicar came in, he wound up the scene by a salute as original as himself, which called forth the following reproof from his brother:—

'Why, man, you don't know how to kiss. You stumbled upon the very tip of her nose, and almost put her eyes out with your spectacles.'

Heedless of the interruption, Mr Jonathan addressed his niece as follows:—

'My dear Niece, Claudia,—I shall henceforth call you by that name, in memory of her of the Epistle, and I so registered it just now, Gladys or Claudia—I wish you and my good nephew, Owen, all happiness and prosperity, both spiritual and temporal. I pray that you may, according to the example of your illustrious namesake, devote yourself to works of piety and hospitality, making your husband's home happy, and keeping a place therein for his and your friends.'

'To be sure she will, uncle,' said Owen, 'and we will have an especial corner for you, called "The Claudia," where the little hypocrite shall talk to you of all the druidical remains, and fossil mammoths, that she pretends to be so interested in.'

'You had better come and take off your bonnet now, my dear,' said Mrs Jonathan to the flushed and shy Gladys.

'I hope I shall never be married,' whispered Freda to Mrs Jones, 'if I am to undergo that sort of ordeal. But I suppose all brides are not kissed in that way.'

Uncle and Aunt Jonathan had prepared a substantial early dinner—they did not dignify it by the name of dejeuner, or miscall it breakfast—to which, in the course of an hour or so, the family party sat down, much as they would have sat down to any ordinary dinner. The dining-table just accommodated ten comfortably, and Netta sat in her easy-chair by the fire, with a small table by her side, making the eleventh.

Miss Gwynne remained to luncheon only, being engaged to dine at Abertewey, and not considering herself quite as one of the guests. She had come uninvited and unexpected, to show due honour to Gladys and her dear friends, Mr and Mrs Jones, and the whole party were gratified by the attention.

The remarks upon her doing so made by her friends at home, were various.

'Freda is certainly very eccentric,' said Lady Mary to her husband. 'Her former maid—your tenant's son—the brother-in-law of that Howel Jenkins. Do you think it discreet, Mr Gwynne?'

'Why, really, Lady Mary, I didn't think about it. She has always done what she likes; they are very worthy, respectable people, you know, and all that sort of thing.'

'Well, if you don't object, of course it is no affair of mine. But it looks very much as if she still thought of Mr Rowland.'

'Oh, an excellent young man! It was only yesterday I saw his name mentioned in the Times, as having attended a large meeting in the place of his rector, who is ill. It was upon the general question of all sorts of improvements of the low parts of London. I can't exactly remember what they were, religious, and sanitary, and all that sort of thing you know. Well, the thanks of the meeting were awarded him, for his very clear and accurate information, or something of the sort. Very satisfactory, you know.'

'Oh very! but that can have nothing to do with Freda.'

'She is very good, is Freda, much improved! she never disputes and quarrels with me now. I hope she will live with us—indeed I cannot part with her again.'

At Abertewey, Mrs Vaughan asked the colonel whether 'he thought Freda would come away from that thupid wedding, in time for dinner.'

'If she doesn't, I will never ask her here again,' was the reply. 'Now Freda really is a capital girl, unaffected and sensible; improving every year. I wish all women were more like her.'

'Tho do I, Gwynne; the ith very nice, tho kind to the children, and not tho thatirical to me as the uthed to be. I uthed to be afraid of her, but I am not now, at all. Don't you think thatirical people very dithagreeable? I hope Winnie won't be thatirical, don't you? Mamma thaith—'

'Never mind what she says, my dear. I hope Freda will come. All the people will be so disgusted if she does not, particularly poor Sir Hugh. I wish she would marry him—but she is too good for him. Intellectual people ought not to marry those who have no brains.'

'No, thertainly not. Oh! here they are! Freda and all. I hear her voithe. I am tho glad.'

To Freda's surprise, every one seemed really glad to see her, and to the surprise of every one, the more they saw of her, the more they liked her. The very people whom she had shunned as bores, and who had shunned her as 'tho thatirical,' now became friendly and pleasant to her, and she to them; how it was they could not tell, but various reasons were assigned for the change.

'How altered Miss Gwynne is,' said one; 'I suppose the birth of the brother has made her more humble.'

'Nothing like London to pull the pride out of our country gentry,' said a second. 'Lords at home, they are only one of a multitude there. Miss Gwynne has learnt her true position at last.'

'How much more agreeable Miss Gwynne is,' said a fourth. 'I suppose it is because she has been living in a clergyman's family, where they are obliged to be pleasant to all the parishioners.'

'How much less fastidious, satirical, and overbearing Freda Gwynne is,' a fourth; 'her very countenance is altered; I am sure there has been some great change in her mind.'

And thus the neighbours rang the changes upon Freda's change; but Mrs Gwynne Vaughan had been, perhaps, the nearest to the real cause. She was no longer satirical, no longer striving to find out vulnerable points in people's characters to laugh at; she had learnt to make allowances for others, who in turn made allowances for her. Satirical people are very amusing, but rarely welcome, companions; not that Freda was exactly satirical, but she had the gift of finding out every one's weak points—a good gift to those who will kindly cover the point, but a bad one to such as like to lay it bare.

The party at Abertewey went off very well; the colonel was in good humour, and devoted to Freda, who tried to treat him as her brother-in-law; and Sir Hugh was more gallant than ever, and long before the evening was over, had managed to tell Freda that he would rather have her without the Park than with it, which Freda pretended to take as a joke on the part of her old admirer.

The following day, Mr and Mrs Jones spent at the Park, according to a special invitation from its master and mistress. Lady Mary's attention to Freda's friends did more towards reconciling her to her step-mother than anything else; and she even forgot to ask whether it was tact or not. Mr Jones was obliged to return to London the next day, but at Freda's earnest entreaty, he left his wife behind him for a week, which was spent by her between the Park and farm very agreeably.

Before she left, Mr Gwynne had a little private conference with her, to the following effect, and very nervous he was meanwhile:—

'I am very much obliged to you and Mr Jones, I am sure, for your kindness to Freda. I hope you understand how satisfied, and—and—all that sort of thing, you know, I am whilst she is with you.'

Mrs Jones saw that she must say something to help him on.

'We are only too glad to have her society and aid. I assure you she has been invaluable in the parish, and is beloved by every one.'

'Exactly; I perceive a wonderful change in her; she is gentler, and less excitable. I feel that you—that your husband—in short, I mean—that—hem—'

'Freda has such a fine natural character, Mr Gwynne.'

'Precisely; I would say that I am convinced you would not influence her, and so forth, in remaining away from—you understand—from me, in short.'

'Certainly not. I should be very glad to think that she would return and live happily at her natural home, sorry as I should be to lose her.'

'Thank you very much indeed; you have always been her true friend. I am very anxious—so we are all you see—Lady Mary would like a companion—Harold attends to her better than to any one else. I hope you like Harold; ah—yes—he is a fine boy, and so talented; and you know—to be sure. I should wish to have Freda to read with me again; I assure you I miss her in many ways. And the colonel and Mrs Vaughan—the children—in fact—in short—you understand?'

'Perfectly, and will not throw any obstacle in the way of Freda's remaining at home.'

'Thank you very much. You are a true friend, Mrs Jones; thank you.'

Mrs Jones made a point of repeating that conversation to Freda, whose look of blank dismay quite startled her.

'Oh! Serena, you want to get rid of me. I could never live this kind of life again. Lady Mary would kill me in another month; not an idea in common. Her daughter is fifty times more endurable, for she is innocent in her silliness. And then that cranky, exigeant colonel, longing to make love to me if I would let him; the stiff dinner parties, tiresome people, spoilt children—though I do delight in Harold and Winnie and Gwynne and Dot and baby, too, for that much—and—'

'And your father,' quietly suggested Mrs Jones.

'I never thought you would wish me to leave you, Serena. Those happy, useful days! The poor, the schools, the church!'

'They are everywhere, my love.'

'But so different. I never felt so happy or useful before I lived with you in London.'

'The change is in yourself, not in the place.'

'Oh! Serena, this is cruel! I could live with my father anywhere, but the others—impossible.'

'Think it over. You know that you have a home with us whenever you like; that it would be my pleasure as well as interest to have you always. That we shall miss you in every possible way; still duty is duty. As long as your father did not care, and Lady Mary was rather glad to have the Park to herself, the thing was, perhaps, different, at any rate Freda was not then the Freda she is now.

'Serena, you are a bitter-sweet, and a horrible little apple that is.'

'But they say it makes good cider.'

'At any rate you ought not to influence me. I will not decide whilst you are here, and that is all I will promise. If I do, it will be to go to you undoubtedly. But I will think it over.'

That very night before she went to bed, Freda did think it over, sitting by the fire in her delightful, warm, well-lighted, well-furnished bedroom; but she could not come to any determination. She made out a sort of debtor and creditor account in her own head, and cashed it according to her somewhat imperfect notions of book-keeping.

'My father—of course I owe him a great deal in the way of duty and love; but he owes me something for letting me have my own way all my life, bringing me up with the notion that I should be an heiress, and then disappointing me by marrying a woman whom I utterly despise. Lady Mary—I owe her nothing whatever, beyond the common proper treatment that one must give to every one; she, on the contrary, owes me compensation for marrying my father when I am sure he didn't want her, and certainly I did not.

'Colonel Vaughan—I don't owe him anything beyond a little improvement in my style of singing and drawing; yes, I owe him a heavy debt of gratitude for not proposing for me instead of Wilhelmina, for assuredly I should have married him, and he owes me something for making a fool of me. Wilhelmina—I owe her a good deal, firstly, for despising her, laughing at her, ridiculing her—and she all the time better than I was, for she never retaliated—and secondly, for trying to prejudice the colonel against her. Harold—I owe him the love of a sister, and he owes me nothing as yet; here I am decidedly debtor. The poor, of course, wherever one is, one owes them a great debt of Christian charity and love; and I must confess that they are not quite so well seen to as when Gladys was my almoner; but then she is here again to see to them, and that, on her own responsibility, and it is Lady Mary's place to care for them now.

'On the other hand, Serena—I owe her everything; all my few good thoughts, words and works. She owes me nothing. Mr Jones, ditto; I am wholly creditor in London: the poor, the ragged schools, I owe them every farthing I can give, for they want it, and have few to help them. I feel almost sure I should be best in London. Rowland Prothero, I owe him compensation for my great, unpardonable rudeness and pride; I am more ashamed of that one action than of any other. He so superior to me in every way, but the mere accident of birth.'

Thus far Freda got in her arithmetic. But Rowland seemed to open a new rule, farther on in Butler than addition and substraction. In short, she found herself lost in the maze of fractions, and could not extricate herself. When she jumped up from her easy-chair, she was trying to reduce the following complex fractions, into one simple one, and entirely failed.

'A curate, the son of my father's tenant, the brother-in-law of my former maid, brother-in-law also of a man indicted for forgery. But, proud as myself; below me here, but above me in London; infinitely my superior in everything worth the consideration of a person travelling quickly through a world of silly distinctions, to one where we shall all begin life on very different principles. The fact is, Freda, that the tables are turned, and you now esteem this same Rowland Prothero much higher than he esteems you. Constant intercourse has brought out all his grand points, and all your weak ones. His mind has conquered your vulgar prejudices, but has also fully seen through them, and despises you accordingly. Well, I suppose duty and propriety concur in my remaining at Glanyravon Park, discretion being the better part of valour.'

And so ended Freda's arithmetic.



CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE PENITENT.

A week after the marriage of Owen and Gladys, the following conversation took place between Gladys and Netta. The latter had been much more wandering in mind since the wedding, and had been occupying herself by writing a variety of letters, all of which were addressed to Howel, with the exception of one, which was to her brother Rowland.

'You see, dear sister,' said Netta, 'that Howel cannot come to me, because he is in debt, so I must go to him. He is in America, I know. His letter was from America.'

'But America is an immense continent, dear Netta,' said Gladys; 'you would not know where to seek him.'

'Oh, yes! I should find him very soon. My love would point the way. I should track his steps like a dog, Gladys—like a dog.'

'But you cannot go till you are better and stronger. Then we can all consult upon the best way.'

'Hush not a word to any one. They would stop me. And you know now Howell is my husband, I must leave father and mother to follow him. I know I was wrong to leave them to marry him; though he loves me, Gladys! he loves me! Don't you think he does?'

'I am sure he does. Still, it might not be well for you to go to him, if he is hiding for debt. He might prefer your remaining here?'

'Would you not go to Owen? Would he like you to be away from him in trouble? You, who have only been married a week, know better; and I have been married years.'

'Owen shall tell you, my dear love, whether he would wish me to go to him at such a time. Perhaps men know best what other men would like?'

'But I mean to go, Gladys. Neither Owen nor you can hinder me.'

'And what of Minette? You would kill her, if you took her so far.'

'Ah! that is what I wanted to say to you. I knew there was something; but my head aches so, I forget. If I go away, will you take care of Minette till I come back. Will you love her as if she were your own?'

'Wherever you go I will be a mother to her; but she would not like to part from her own dear mother, any better than you will from yours. We will not think of the journey just yet, dear; we will be happy together, all of us, for a little longer. You cannot leave so soon, after you have made Owen and me so blest.'

'None of you want me now; father and mother have a new daughter, a better one than I have ever been; Owen a wife! What a word that is, Gladys! We don't understand it till we are parted from our husband; and I give Minette a mother in my place. I must go very soon.'

Poor Netta laid her head on Gladys' shoulder, and began to cry.

'Well, dear,' said Gladys soothingly, 'we will see about it, you and I. But you must not go till I think you strong enough, and till we are prepared with clothes and money.'

'Oh! I can beg! I don't want clothes or money to get to Howel.'

Gladys knew that it was of no use to try to combat Netta's purpose. All she could do was to seem to yield.

'We will see,' she said, 'when the days are a little longer. But you have not told me about the letters yet.'

'No, I was forgetting them. If anything happens to me, or it I should miss Howel on my way, I want him to have this packet of letters. In them, I have told him that I wish Minette to remain here with you and mother; I have said a great deal to him, but mostly to beg him to forgive me, as I forgive him, all our unkindness to one another. Was that right, Gladys?'

'Quite right, love. We must forgive, as we hope to be forgiven.'

'Father and mother have forgiven me. Do you think my heavenly Father has?'

'Yes, I do; because you have repented, and "come to your Father," and asked forgiveness for His Son's sake.'

'I have, Gladys; so I can go on my journey cheerfully.'

Gladys could scarcely refrain from tears, when she thought of the journey she was really travelling.

'I know you have forgiven me, Gladys, for all I said of you when you came here first. Strange that I should have been willing to leave you in the barn, or anywhere, to die; you who have done so much for me! Oh, Gladys!'

'Don't think of those times, Netta, dear; they are past, thank God.'

Here the door opened, and Owen appeared, his face beaming with a happiness that it did all around him good to see.

'What! tears! both of you! Only a week married!' he said, half playfully, half reproachfully, as he kissed, alternately, his wife and sister, and finally, sat down by the side of the former.

'It was my fault, Owen,' said Netta.

'Is that true, Gladys—quite true?' asked Owen, taking Gladys' hands in his, and looking into her eyes.

'Quite true, Owen,' said Gladys, smiling lovingly on the open countenance of Owen, whilst a quiet tear rolled down her cheek.

Owen kissed off the tear.

'You are happy, my love?' again he asked, as if fearing that a shadow should pass over that fair, sweet face, to obscure the light of their spring of wedded life.

Gladys pressed his hands, assured him by a glance true as oaths, and looked at Netta. The hint was taken.

In a moment Netta's were the thin hands that Owen clasped, her's the face into which he gazed.

'Owen,' she said earnestly, 'if I go away, will you take my child, as if she were your own? Will you love her, and bring her up?'

'You are not going away, Netta! But you may be quite sure that I will love Minette, without any going away. We will all keep together now, we are too happy—so happy, my Gladys, are we not?'

There was a strange restlessness about Netta. This resolution to go away had taken such a hold upon her, that she reverted to it again and again. Gladys confided it to Owen and their mother, and they all decided that it would be necessary to watch her night and day, without letting her know that she was watched.

They resorted to every possible means of amusement, but in vain. She was quite preoccupied, and even her child failed to attract her attention. Again she became nervous at every sudden sound, and started at every footfall. She told Gladys that she knew that Howel would either come to her during the course of that week, or that she should go to him.

Her mother assisted her in going to bed that night, and before she laid down, she said,—

'Dear mother! do you remember that you used to come to this dear room when I was a child, the last thing at night, and, sleeping or waking, to kiss me before you went to sleep? and do you remember that I always said my prayers at your knee, in that very corner by the little table? Sometimes I feel as if I was a child, or quite a young girl again. It was so good of you to give me my own room, and my own bed, that I love so well. If I go away, I should like Minette to have this room. It will make her think of me. I pray she may be a better child than I have been.'

'Will you not get into bed, dear, and try to sleep?' said Mrs Prothero.

'I think I should like to say my prayers again alone with you; so, at your feet. You shall pray for me, and I will join with you.'

Netta knelt, as if she were, indeed, once more a child, at her mother's knees, and clasped her thin white hands together.

'Will you pray for Howel, mother?' asked Netta.

Mrs Prothero laid her hand on her kneeling daughter's head, and uplifting her tearful eyes to heaven, prayed aloud for Netta, for Howel, for all. Netta repeated each sentence after her mother, and when the prayer was concluded, threw her arms around her, and thanked her for praying for Howel.

'I cannot deceive you again mother, fach,' she said 'I am going away to seek Howel, because he cannot come to me. If I should never find him, mother—but I shall, I know I shall, if I should die on the road—tell him that I never loved any one but him all my life, and I am sure he loves me. And now I am at peace with all the world, and have repented of all my sins. Gladys thinks I shall go to heaven if I die. And I humbly believe I shall. I feel quite calm and happy in my own mind, only wishful to go to my poor Howel, who is alone and unhappy. Now, mother, I will go to bed.'

She went to bed accordingly.

'Let Minette come and say good-night to me, mother,' she said, when Mrs Prothero had made her comfortable.

Mrs Prothero called the child, and her grandfather brought her upstairs.

'How does my girl feel to-night?' asked Mr Prothero cheerfully.

'Better, father, thank you; quite well indeed. God bless you, darling. Be a good child to grandmother and Aunt Gladys, and all. God bless you, father. I think I should like to have Owen and Gladys to wish me good-night; it is so nice to see you all together.'

Owen and Gladys came, and Netta bade 'God bless' them all, and said she should now go to sleep quite happy.

Gladys went to put Minette to bed, and Mrs Prothero sat by Netta's pillow.

'Good-night, mother; God bless you,' Netta said, more than once, before she fell asleep.

When Gladys returned, she was sleeping peacefully.

'The excitement of the day seems to have passed away,' whispered Gladys. 'Let me watch by her, dear mother.'

The words 'mother' and 'daughter' had come quite naturally to Mrs Prothero and Gladys.

'No, Gladys, thank you; not to-night. I will be in the room to-night.'

'Then you will go to bed soon?'

'Yes, very shortly.'

The two women embraced one another tenderly.

'We can only pray for her, poor lamb,' said Mrs Prothero gently. 'I have given her to the Lord to do with her according to His good pleasure.'

'He will not leave her nor forsake her,' said Gladys.

Mrs Prothero sat a long time by her child's side watching her, but she slept so calmly that at last she went to the little table by the fire, and read her Bible. It was late—very late for the farm—when she undressed herself and lay down on the little bed, placed near the larger bed of Netta. Even then, more than an hour passed before she slept. The last thing she heard before she closed her eyes was her daughter's somewhat irregular breathing—the last words that rang in her ears were her 'God bless you, mother.'

Gladys, uneasy, she knew not wherefore, was in the room at about three o'clock in the morning. She had learnt to move so gently that the sleepers were not conscious of her presence. She was most thankful to find them sleeping.

Gladys was up and dressed by six o'clock. She was anxious to spare her mother all possible trouble, and to see that the household was astir before she arose. It was a cold, dark January morning. As she went down the passage, a candle in her hand, towards Netta's room, she felt the chill air press heavily around her. She put the candle on the floor, outside the room, and went in. The night-light had burnt out, and the fire was dim, though not extinguished. Gladys passes Mrs Prothero without awaking her, and stands at Netta's bedside.

She cannot see clearly the face of the sleeping Netta, but such a restless anxiety about her had haunted her all the night, that she stoops down to listen to her breathing. It is so faint that she kneels down, and puts her ear close to the face. So very faint it is, that she is not quite sure that she hears it at all. She goes into the passage for the candle, and meets Owen. She signs him to silence, and her pale face frightens him. He goes with her into Netta's room. Shading the candle with her hand, she again stoops over Netta, so does Owen.

Very calm, very pale, and most lovely is the face on which they gaze with an eager, throbbing anxiety. Gladys presses her hand on Owen's arm, as she puts the candle near that placid face. He, too, puts his ear close to the half-open mouth, touches the hand that lies on the white counterpane, feels for the pulse, so quick but yesterday. He is about to utter the fear that oppresses him, but Gladys points to his mother, still heavily sleeping.

'Perhaps it is a swoon,' she whispers, and goes for the draught ready for such an attack. The light of the candle awakes Mrs Prothero, and she is out of bed in a moment.

'Netta has fainted, mother; she has one of her spasms,' says Owen, turning his pale face to his mother.

'My God, it is death!' cries the stricken mother, falling on her knees by the bedside of her child.

And it is death. Without a groan the spirit has quitted its dwelling of clay to enter upon its eternal rest!



CHAPTER XLIX.

THE RECTOR.

Life and death! What are they? A soul in chains, and a soul set free. Darkness and light, uncertainty and certainty! Warfare and peace! A railway journey and the great terminus! A span of time and immeasurable eternity! A bounded horizon and illimitable space! Earth and heaven! Satan and Christ! Man and God!

Life! On New Year's morning Glanyravon Farm was gay with preparations for a wedding. All its inmates were hopeful and cheerful! Two human beings were made as happy as human beings can be in this world. Three generations witnessed the auspicious event, and blessings and congratulations mingled with the marriage bells!

One short week, and Glanyravon Farm was mournful with lamentations for the dead. All its inmates were weeping. Death's angel had glided in unawares and unexpected, and had borne away one of that loving family, leaving only her earthly tenement behind!

Another short week, and Glanyravon Farm held no longer even that once beautiful tenement. Quiet forms moved about in black clothing, and melancholy faces looked sadly at one another, and spoke low of her from whom they were parted for an indefinite period.

Such is life!

Death! what know the living of death? Is it not 'swallowed up in victory?' Death, then, to the believer in Christ is victory.

Such is death!

These were thoughts that presented themselves to Rowland Prothero after he had followed his sister's body to the grave. It was with such thoughts, simplified when put into words, that he attempted to comfort his mother, and to raise his father's mind from a morbid ruminating upon the past, to the hope that his beloved child had found death victory. Whilst Gladys comforted Owen and Minette, Rowland seemed to be all in all to his parents, and devoted himself to them during the period that he was able to leave his duties in London. The news of the death of his rector abroad had reached him the day before the intelligence of that of Netta; and, had it not been for the kind exertions of Mr Jones, he could not have stayed with his family the Sunday that followed the funeral.

Mr Jones, however, managed everything for him in London, and procured help in the emergency. Thus Rowland was able to accompany his family to church, and to be with them a few days of the week succeeding that on which his dear sister was buried.

It was on the afternoon of one of these few and precious days that he was sitting alone with his mother. The rest of the family were about their necessary avocations. Gladys, followed by poor little Minette in her black frock, was managing the household. Owen and his father were out of doors, the former doing his best to cheer his poor father, who had been perhaps more entirely cast down by his loss than any other member of the family, Mrs Prothero not excepted. As he himself said, he had not known what an idol he had made of his girl until she was gone from him.

Rowland and his mother were talking of Netta. It was Mrs Prothero's one theme when alone with him or Gladys. They could comfort her aching heart by assuring her that they believed her child's repentance to have been sincere, and her faith, if at times troubled and confused by the wandering mind and puzzled brain, placed on the One sole and sure foundation.

It was in the midst of this conversation that Mrs Griffith Jenkins entered, unushered, into the parlour where they were sitting.

At the earnest request of his wife and all his children, backed by the feeling that Netta would have wished it, Mr Prothero had consented to ask Mrs Jenkins to the funeral, which she had attended, together with Mrs Prothero, Mrs Jonathan, and Gladys. Mr Prothero had shaken her by the hand on that sad day, but had not spoken to her. Sorrow had so far bowed his spirit as to teach him to forgive her, if not Howel.

Mrs Jenkins scarcely gave herself time to say 'How do you do?' when she poured out the grief which had brought her to Glanyravon.

'Oh, Mrs Prothero, fach! Ach, Rowland! what will I do? They was finding him in America—the pleece was finding him, my Howels! And he do be in jail in London, 'dited for forgery. He, my beauty Howels—he forge! Why 'ould he be forging? Annwyl! Fie was innocent, Rowland—on my deet, he was innocent. Oh, bach gen anwyl!'[Footnote: Oh, darling boy!]

Mrs Jenkins wrung her hands and cried bitterly.

'How do you know this, Aunt 'Lizbeth?' said Rowland. 'Tell me calmly, and then we will see what can be done,'

'Read you that letter. By to-morrow he'll be in all the papers. He—so clever, so genteel, so rich! And all my Griffey's savings—hundreds of thousands of pound—nobody do be knowing where they was. Ach a fi! ach a fi!'

Rowland read a letter from a celebrated London counsel retained by Mr Rice Rice for Howel, to the effect that Howel had been taken in America on the very day that his poor wife was planning to wander away in search of him, and was a prisoner the day she died. He had arrived in London, and been lodged in Newgate the previous day, the one on which that letter was written.

Rowland gently told his mother the contents of it.

'Thank God that my child did not live to see this day!' exclaimed Mrs Prothero.

'Better dead, cousin, than to be living as Howels is!' sobbed Mrs Griffey. 'In a prison, too, my beauty Howels! But I was wanting to know, Mr Rowland, when you was going to London? Seure, I do think of going to-night, or to-morrow morning.'

'Why must you go, aunt?' asked Rowland.

'Why must I be going? Why ask such a question? 'Ould I be staying at home, and my Howels in gaol? I do go to tak care of him, to pay for him, to be seeing justice done him, to be near him. Night or morrow morning I do mean to go.'

'Mother,' said Rowland, 'I am sure you will not mind sacrificing one day to poor Aunt Griffey and Howel. I must be in London the day after to-morrow. I will go to-morrow instead, and take her up with me, and see what is to be done for Howel. He will not have too many friends near him at such a time.'

'God bless you, Rowland, bach,' said Mrs Griffey, springing up from her chair, and running to Rowland and kissing him vigorously—a compliment, it must be confessed, he could have dispensed with. 'And you will be standing up for him, and be telling of his character—and of his living at Abertewey—and how he was so clever, and did never be doing anything wrong. You will be saving him, Rowland, seure!'

Rowland shook his head.

'I will go with you, Aunt 'Lizbeth, and take you to my lodgings till I have seen Howel, and told him you are in London. We shall then see what can be done.'

'But you will be speaking up for him, Rowland, bach?'

'Cousin 'Lizbeth,' said Mrs Prothero, 'if Howel had been a good son, and a steady young man, you could scarcely ask Rowland to speak up for him, and his own sister in Llanfach churchyard! "As we have sown, so must we reap," in this world.'

'It do be fine for you, cousin, to be preaching, who was having fortunate sons, but—'

'Hush, Aunt 'Lizbeth, if you please,' interrupted Rowland. 'I will take you to London to-morrow, if you are resolved to go. You must meet me at the omnibus.'

(There was now a railway within a few miles of Llanfawr.)

'Then I will be going home to get ready. You was seure to come, Mr Rowlands?'

'Sure, if nothing unforeseen prevents me.'

At this point of the conversation, Mr Prothero entered the parlour, leading Minette, who had two letters in her hand.

'Here are two letters for you, Uncle Rowland,' said the child. 'Grandfather says one must be from a bishop. What's a bishop, uncle? Oh, Grandma Jenkins!'

Minette gave the letters to Rowland, and then went to kiss her grandmother, who began to cry when she saw her. Mr Prothero suppressed a very equivocal question concerning the reason of her again appearing at Glanyravon, and said,—

'How d'ye do, Mrs Griffey?'

Rowland opened his letters. One was from Mr Jones, the other, as Minette said, was from a bishop—the Bishop of London. He read Mr Jones' first, and turned more than usually red as he did so. He uttered an exclamation of surprise when he finished reading it, and put it into his father's hands.

He then read the second letter. It was short. He got up, sat down, got up again, gave the letter to his father, and said,—

'It is too much! I do not deserve it! I wish it were Jones instead of me. He is much better—more suited—married. I cannot believe it!'

Neither could Mr Prothero, to judge from the expression of his face. He read each letter twice over, and seemed struggling with some great emotion as he ejaculated, 'Rowland, my boy!' and burst into tears.

Mr Prothero had not cried before since Netta's death, and those were, indeed, precious tears.

Minette, terrified at seeing her grandfather cry, ran off in search of Gladys, who had been every one's refuge since her marriage.

She and Owen were at the front door, receiving Mr and Mrs Jonathan Prothero, who had just arrived.

'Aunty, grandfather is crying,' said the child. 'You said you wished he would cry; but I don't like it. I think he is crying for poor mamma, who is in heaven, and can't come to him.'

All hurried into the parlour.

They found Mr Prothero holding one of his son's hands, and shaking it nervously, and Mrs Prothero holding the other, and vain attempts to speak.

'Brother Jo! sister-in-law! Just in time. If our Netta was but here!' said Mr Prothero. 'Mrs Jonathan shall read the letters. It was she who got him the curacy.'

Mrs Jonathan was not a little surprised to be greeted by having two letters thrust into her hands, and being requested to read them.

'This one first, sister-in-law.'

At any other time Mrs Jonathan would have resented the epithet of sister-in-law, but she now swallowed it, and began to read as follows:—

'MY DEAR ROWLAND,—I should have written to you earlier, but I could not do so until a question that has been pending ever since you left was decided. Deputations and round-robins have been issuing from this parish by unanimous consent, and tending to St James'. For once High Church and Low Church have united in paying you the greatest compliment you can have paid just at present, viz., in requesting the bishop to give you the living of which you have been more than ten years curate. I believe it is pretty nearly settled that you are to be our new rector, and that I shall have to knock under, and solicit you to continue me in the curacy. I congratulate you from my heart; so does my wife; so, I am sure, do rich and poor around us. There never was a more popular presentation. May God prosper your labours as a rector as He has as curate.

'Give our love to my niece, Gladys, and kind regards to all the rest of your family, with a kiss to Minette, and believe me, most faithfully yours,

WILLIAM JONES.'

Mrs Jonathan Prothero had begun to read this letter with a firm voice. It faltered before she got half way through it, and nearly failed before she completed it.

'Read the other before you say anything,' said Mr Prothero.

She began accordingly, clearing her throat and eyes at the same time.

'MY DEAR SIR,—I have great pleasure in offering you the living of which you are now curate, vacant by the lamented death of Mr Stephenson. I assure you that the united request of your friends and parishioners was but the echo of my own will, as I have long known and appreciated your untiring labours for the good of the souls committed to your care, particularly during the long illness of the rector, when you were of necessity brought more prominently forward.

'Praying that God's blessing may rest on you and your parishioners,—I remain, my dear sir, faithfully yours,

'LONDON.'

'Rowland! my dear nephew!' exclaimed Mr Jonathan Prothero, 'this is incredible! Such a living, without interest, personal application, much acquaintance with his lordship—'

'You forget, my dear,' said Mrs Jonathan interrupting her husband in his speech, and herself in an embrace she was about to give Rowland; 'you forget that Rowland frequently met the bishop at Sir Philip Payne Perry's, and was not without interest, I am proud to say.'

'And I am proud that he has got on by honest merit,' said Mr Jonathan.

'And so am I, uncle, much obliged as we are to the "three green peas,"' said Owen. 'Let us shake hands upon it, Rowly, and here's Gladys waiting for a kiss; she'll be running away from me again to be your district visitor, or Sister of Charity, or whatever you call it. Quite grand to have a near relation a London rector; I am half a foot taller already.'

'Kiss me, Uncle Rowland; I am very glad the bishop has written you such a nice letter,' said Minette. Rowland took the child up in his arms. 'Grandma Jenkins is crying so in the corner,' she whispered; 'is it for papa, or poor mamma?'

Rowland's attention was instantly recalled to Mrs Jenkins, who was, indeed, crying and sobbing very much. He pointed her out to his mother, who at once went to her.

'Oh! I am thinking of your Rowlands and my Howels, so different!' said the wretched mother; 'he to be beginning life so rich, and your son with nothing; and now! oh, anwyl! oh, anwyl!'

'Come with me, cousin 'Lizbeth,' said Mrs Prothero kindly; 'come upstairs, and I will make you some tea, and then Owen shall send you home.'

Mrs Prothero and Mrs Jenkins left the room, followed by Gladys, who was soon making the required beverage.

Whilst congratulations were still going on in the parlour, Miss Gwynne's voice was heard in the passage.

'Not a word to Miss Gwynne, or indeed to any one, of my having the living, to-day at least,' said Rowland, leaving the room hastily, and repeating his request to Gladys in the hall.

'I can only stay a few minutes,' said Miss Gwynne, when she had shaken hands with the party in the parlour, 'I wished to ask how Mrs Prothero is, and to see you, Mrs Jonathan. I have been delayed at the school, and it is nearly dusk already.'

'Oh, don't go yet, Miss Gwynne,' said Minette, creeping up to her, and getting on her lap, 'it is so nice with you. Poor mamma is gone to heaven, Miss Gwynne.'

'Yes, love,' whispered Miss Gwynne, kissing Minette, 'but we will not talk of it before your grandfather, you see it grieves him.'

'But you won't go; it is moonlight now—a pretty moon—I see it. It will light you home.'

The 'pretty moon' rather frightened Miss Gwynne, who said that if she did not go, she would have the servants in search of her.

'Will you allow me to walk with you, Miss Gwynne?' said Rowland; 'it is too late for you to return alone.'

'Thank you, I shall be really obliged, if I am not taking you from your friends. I am a much greater coward than I used to be. London lamps spoil one for country roads. Tell your grandmother that I will come again to-morrow and see her, Minette.'

Miss Gwynne and Rowland left the house together. Mr Prothero saw them to the door, and watched them up the road.

'Strange times!' he said to his brother, when he returned to the parlour. 'Rowland walking with Miss Gwynne quite familiar. I hope he isn't too forward; to be seure he don't offer his arm, or go near her; but it seems out of place their going together in that way at all. Gwynne, Glanyravon is a proud man, perhaps he 'ouldnt like it; but Rowland is so grand and so good now, that I daren't say a word.'

'Oh!' said Mrs Jonathan, drawing herself up to her fullest height, 'a Rugby boy, and an Oxford man is a companion for any lady—and a London rector is a match for any lady in the kingdom, allow me to assure you, Mr Prothero; and Rowland has been in quite as good, or better society in town, than you can meet with in this neighbourhood. Sir Philip is quite in the first circles.'

'And Rowland isn't spoilt by it, brother,' said Mr Jonathan. 'He is a son and nephew we have reason to be proud of.'

Thus, in the midst of heavy sorrow, a joy came to the inmates of Glanyravon Farm. A sunbeam through the shadows.

Such, too, is life!



CHAPTER L.

THE DISINHERITED.

Miss Gwynne and Rowland walked on quietly together for a little space. There was something in the heart of each, unknown to the other, that seemed to close up speech. It was nearly five o'clock, and a January evening; but for the 'pretty moon' and the white mist from the river, and the frost-bitten snow on the roads, it would have been dark; but it was really a fine, bright night. That river-mist rose from the meadows beneath like a large lake, and the moonlight pierced through it and mingled with it.

It was such a night as lovers of a healthy, natural tone of mind might rejoice in; frost and snow being no refrigerators of true, honest warmth, but rather tending to keep it alive, by exhilarating the spirits and clearing the atmosphere.

Rowland broke the silence, and so clear was the air, that his own voice startled him.

'I am going to London to-morrow, Miss Gwynne; may I give Mrs Jones some hope that you will soon be back again?'

'I fear not,' said Freda; 'my father wishes me to remain at home, and I have decided upon doing so.'

'Not entirely?' asked Rowland, in a voice that all his self-command could not render calm.

'I believe it is so settled. He makes a great point of it. Lady Mary is equally urgent, and I have promised. Do you not think it is right?'

'I suppose so; but what shall we do without you?'

Rowland spoke as he felt, from his heart. Miss Gwynne was touched by the words and tone.

'I shall be very sorry,' she said, simply. 'I never was so happy as in that dingy old square.'

Rowland felt that his new living, with all its increased responsibilities, would be a heavy burden to him without Freda's ready energy to lighten it. He did not at that moment pause to think how closely even our highest duties are entwined with our affections, and thereby lowered to earth—but so it is. The conscientious man does them; but a helping hand, a friendly voice, a loving word, is a wonderful aid towards doing them with a cheerful spirit.

There was silence for a few minutes between Rowland and Freda, and their quick steps slackened. At last:

'I thank you from my heart, Miss Gwynne,' said Rowland, for all your kindness to my dear sister. It must cease, alas! but it will never be forgotten.'

'Poor Netta! my old playfellow! I was only too thankful to be of any service. I wish we could have saved her.'

'God knows best. Her husband is in Newgate gaol.'

Rowland said this with a great effort; Freda started, and there was again a brief silence.

'Miss Gwynne, I have long wished to say to you, how much I have felt your devotion to the schools and poor of our parish. Now that we are about to lose you, perhaps, I may do so. Glanyravon will gain what our poor East End loses.'

'Thank you. If I leave London in a better spirit than I entered it, I am in great measure indebted to you for it.'

'To me!'

'Yes. I do not wish to flatter, or to be religiously sentimental; but your practical, simple sermons, and your still more practical life have done me much good. Now we will not compliment one another any more.'

'Oh, Miss Gwynne! you do not know what you do when you say such words to me.'

'I simply tell the truth.'

'I, too, have another truth to tell, which, if not told now, will never be told.'

Freda's heart beat quick, and her face flushed. She was thankful that silence concealed the one, and night the other. But the truth was not what the heart whispered, and the pulsation slackened.

'Years ago—I know not how many years, the time seems so long, and yet so short—I insulted you by words that should never have been said. We were on this very drive, near this very spot—the same moon was looking down upon us. This very tree was over our heads. Do you remember? You do—alas! you must. Pride, most improper pride in one who should be a teacher of humility, has prevented my alluding to the subject ever since.'

Rowland paused, and he and Freda stood still beneath that old oak, so well remembered by both. She did not speak; she could not for the moment; and Rowland continued,—

'Those words, which called forth your severe and deserved reproof, should never have been said; but your kindness, the hour, the scene, my own excited feelings, my—in short, they were called forth involuntarily, but were wholly inexcusable. I forgot my birth and position, and was punished accordingly. Pride has kept me silent ever since. Pride has prevented my saying that I am sorry now that I so forgot myself then, and pride has made me cold and reserved to you, when I saw clearly that you wished to be my friend, and have since proved yourself such. Will you forgive me?'

Freda did not, as when they once before stood beneath that huge oak, draw herself up to her full height, and make an indignant answer. She trembled, and glanced very timidly into the face that looked down upon hers. There, in the cold moonlight, with the icicles hanging from the old tree, and the frost-spirit hovering near, she read that face more truly than she had done in the genial summer moonshine, and wished those words had never been spoken. She said, gently but decidedly,—

'Mr Rowland, it is I, not you who ought to crave forgiveness. You did me an honour of which I was not deserving, and, therefore, I could not appreciate it. I have repented of those proud words almost ever since. I am heartily ashamed of them, and beg you to try to forget that they were ever uttered.'

Once more there was a momentary silence, then Rowland said firmly,—

'Miss Gwynne, you must understand that I only regret the boldness of my conduct, and that I did not conceal my feelings from you as from the rest of the world. I do not regret the feelings; do not apologise for them. They were my own, engendered by nature and circumstances, given me by God, as part of my portion of trial in this world; they grew with me from childhood, ever since I used to play with you at the vicarage—they were fostered by your father's kindness and my own self-esteem, as well as by your presence, which I ought to have fled; they are with me still, have never left me, will be my weakness and my strength so long as this earthly warfare lasts.'

'And is it really so?' said Freda, a large tear glittering in the eyes into which the moon, the frost-spirit, and Rowland were equally looking.

Two hands were tightly clasped that had hitherto scarcely dared to touch each other; two hearts were for ever united, that hitherto had been as far estranged as Vesuvius and the icebergs.

I know that many cynical and sentimental readers will ask if there is no danger of the pair of lovers taking cold on an evening in January, whilst thus mutually discovering the 'eternal passion' in the presence of the 'Erl-king.'

Rowland and Freda seem to ask the same question, for, loosening that close grasp of hands, and without one word of love, they walk hastily towards the house. Rowland talks rapidly the whole way, interrupted by an occasional sentence from Freda. Readers, there is no proposal, no acceptance. The conversation is as follows:—

Rowland.—I have just received letters from the Bishop of London and Mr Jones offering me the living, and telling me that the parishioners wish me for their rector. I am most thankful now, for it puts me in a very different position—it allows me to hope, and with less presumption.

Freda.—It makes no difference to me, you are yourself whether rector or curate. But I rejoice for your sake, and to know that they appreciate you.

Rowland.—You will know and believe that it was Miss Gwynne, Freda, the woman, not the heiress, that I have loved so long and so well.

Freda.—I am no longer an heiress; you are far the best off.

Rowland.—I am most thankful. Had this wide park still been yours, I could never have said what I have dared to say to-day; but let me repeat once more your words that I may remember who I am—a farmer's son, your father's tenant.

Freda.—A clergyman, a gentleman, and a Christian.

Rowland.—My brother-in-law a—a—felon.

Freda.—Yourself not changed by your brother-in-law's crimes.

Rowland.—If then in the course of another year our present painful position should be forgotten, or at least, at rest, when I am established at the rectory as rector, when I can come forward on my own responsibility, when, in short, I can say without compunction all I now feel, may I hope?'

Freda.—Then as now, you may be certain.

They were on the steps before the door of the house; again their hands were firmly clasped.

Rowland.—Till then, farewell, and God bless you.

Freda.—Will you not come in?

Rowland.—No, I would rather not now.

Freda.—Then God bless you, and be with you during your coming trial.

And thus they parted, happy, and having perfect faith in one another.



CHAPTER LI.

THE CONVICT.

Forgeries of all sorts are so much the taste of genteel rogues of the present age, that the reader will readily dispense with a detailed account of the trial and conviction of Howel Jenkins. Any one of the various cases that fill those columns of the Times, devoted to such criminalities, will give a very good general idea of his. All that his mother's remnant of his father's hoarded wealth could do, was done, to prove him guiltless, but in vain. Counsel pleaded, some of his turf friends, themselves of doubtful reputation, spoke to his character, and he sat through his trial as imperturbably as if he had been at a dinner-party. The prosecutors, Sir Samuel Spendall and Sir Horatio Simpson, met with deserved reproofs for allowing themselves to be swindled, almost before their faces, out of money and property to an enormous amount.

Long before his father's death, Howel had begun a system of betting-book cheating, and forgery on a small scale, which had ceased for a short time when he came into his enormous wealth, but recommenced as that wealth dwindled. Numerous instances came out from various sources whilst he was in America,—all his former associates being ready to leave his setting sun, for the rising one of his accusers.