Gladys, the Reaper

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!

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.

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.

Sir S. Spendall and Sir H. Simpson were sole prosecutors, and between forgeries on banks, and in betting-books, and the unjust acquisition of Spendall Lodge, Howel was found guilty of forgeries to the amount of some fifty or sixty thousand pounds, and sentenced to transportation for fourteen years. So much general villainy transpired amongst the set in which these crimes were committed, and the prosecutors themselves were so weak and dissipated, that the sentence was supposed to be less severe than it might have been under other circumstances.

The nefarious conduct of Mr Deep as Howel's attorney, and the enormous interest he was found to have received, caused him to be struck off the rolls, and very little evidence was wanting to prove him an accomplice in Howel's villainy. However, it was not forthcoming, and so Howel suffered alone.

It was generally rumoured that Howel had forged his mother's name, at various times, to a very large amount; but, as she vigorously denied the fact, and acknowledged every signature as her own, the case was, of course, not brought forward.

In spite of her manifold exertions in his favour, in spite of all Rowland's efforts, Howel positively refused to see either of them before the trial took place. He declared to his mother, through his attorney, that if he saw her, she would take away some of that nerve and courage so necessary to establish his innocence; and to Rowland, he politely hinted that he did not wish to see him at all.

As the trial was almost immediate upon the imprisonment, they did not press the point. Rowland and Mr and Mrs Jones, pitying Mrs Jenkins in her evident misery, would have had her remain amongst them, but she insisted on taking a lodging near the gaol, that she might, at least, be in her son's neighbourhood, and hear from his attorney and others of his health daily.

He was always reported to be well, and in good spirits, and indeed was so, to all appearance. He ate, drank, and slept much as if he had never committed crimes that at one period would have brought him to the gallows; and to the last moment of his leaving the prison for his trial, jauntily talked of what he should do when he was out of 'that confounded hole.'

It was with great difficulty that Rowland persuaded Mrs Jenkins to remain in her lodging during the time of the trial, which he attended himself, more on her account than his own; for he was so fully convinced of Howel's guilt, that he knew he should only witness his degradation.

In the court he fell in with Captain Dancy, who told him that he had wished to say a good word for Howel on his wife's account, for whom he entertained a great respect; but that Howel had positively refused any aid whatever from him. He thought this strange, as he owed him a large sum of money, and he had not brought forward his claim. Rowland thought it strange too, not knowing then, that Howel had one soft part in his hard nature, and that was love for Netta.

Howel bore the summing up of the judge and his severe reprimand with indifference. He seemed slightly moved when the sentence was pronounced; but recovering perfect calmness, he said aloud, so that the whole court could hear,—'If I am guilty, my prosecutors are guilty, and all the speculators in the world are guilty.'

When Rowland went to Mrs Jenkins' lodging after all was over, he found Mrs Jones with her, her husband having been with him during the trial. Mrs Jones had been endeavouring to prepare the poor mother for the probable sentence, but nothing could persuade her that 'her Howels, so clever, so genteel, who dined with the Queen and Prince Albert, and was handsomer than the Prince, for she had seen him,' could be transported for forgery.

When Rowland told her the truth, as gently as he could, the effect it had upon her was quite different from what he had expected. She burst into a passion, not of grief, but of rage. She had been drinking brandy before Mrs Jones went to her, and had been greatly excited the whole morning, as she had also been on the previous day, the trial having lasted two days. At the climax, the true nature of the woman showed itself, and the friends who surrounded her thought she was insane.

Judge, jury, witnesses, prosecutors, and finally every member of the Prothero family came in for a share of abuse of the coarsest kind. Rowland felt thankful that the greatest part of it was uttered in Welsh, and that, therefore, Mrs Jones could not understand it, although the strong guttural, made stronger by uncontrolled passion, was enough, in itself, to frighten any one. Happily, she was surrounded by Christians who pitied her, and did not leave her in her sin and sorrow to the strange people who came, uncalled, to see what was the matter, and who would fain have remained; but Rowland told them, decidedly, to go away.

Mr and Mrs Jones, also, withdrew at Rowland's request when the outburst had somewhat subsided, and left him to reason with the wretched, maddened woman alone.

He let the fury wear itself out, and then stood by to hear his unfortunate sister and his father abused as the primary causes of Howel's downfall.

'If he didn't be marrying beneath him, he 'ould be holding up his head, and looking for a lady, who do be keeping him in his place. And Netta Prothero so 'stravagant! ach a fi! and Prothero, Glanyfavon, who was turning against him, and kicking me out of his house. Shame for you all, Rowland Prothero! your own cousin and brother-in-law! and no one to be saying a word to help him. Oh, anwyl! my boy! my Howels! What 'ould his poor father be saying if he was knowing all! and how his money was going and all mine too! I shall be going to the Eunion, and then you'll be feeling satisfied, Rowland Prothero! and your mother, and that Gladys, and all so grand! 'll be looking down upon me. And my Howels over the sea! 'sported for fourteen years, and I 'ont be living to see him come back again. Anwyl! anywyl!'

Here tears came, and Mrs Jenkins sank upon a chair, and covered her face with her hands.

Rowland let them flow for a time, and then putting his hand kindly on her shoulder said,—

'Aunt 'Lizbeth! you must try to keep up for Howel's sake. He will like you to visit him now, perhaps,'

The kind tones touched a gentler chord in the poor woman's heart, and she looked up at Rowland, like one awaking from a dream.

'Seure! Mr Rowland Prothero! I'm thinking you're too fine for us now. A clergy and a rector! oh seure! you'll not be going to see my poor Howels!'

'Yes, I will, if you will try to be calm. I will see him first, and prepare him for your coming; I will not even ask his permission but go to him. I can gain admittance at once, I know, both as a clergyman and relation.'

'Now! go you directly! tell you my Howels—'

'I don't think I can go to-night. It is too late—but to-morrow I will go, on condition that you compose yourself, and return with me to my lodgings.'

'I 'ont be going to your lodgings, I 'ouldn't be leaving my Howels for the world.'

'You cannot see him to-night, you must not stay with the people of this house after what you said to-day, or they will take advantage of your being alone, to make you say more. I cannot remain here to-night, and I am the only friend you have in town to whom you could go.'

'Treue, for you, Rowland Prothero. There's my Lady Simpson was asking me to stay with her, when my Howels and I was having money enough to buy her presents, and her son and doater did go to Abertewey when they did like—and now, not wan of all the fine folks do come and say, "How was you, Mrs Jenkins?"'

Rowland ventured to repeat a few verses from Scripture, and to beg her to turn her mind to better thoughts. Then he induced her to put on her bonnet and cloak and go home with him, promising to bring her back the following day, and retaining the lodging for another week.

They passed a miserable evening. It was in vain that Rowland strove to comfort or advise his guest. She did nothing but abuse justice, and lament her son's past grandeur.

The following day, Rowland fulfilled his promise. He left her at her lodging and went to the gaol.

He had previously obtained full permission of the authorities, through the chaplain, who was well-known to him, to visit Howel when he liked, and to give him the letters left for him by his deceased wife. The chaplain had told him that the prisoner was quite indifferent to all that he said to him on religious subjects, and listened to them, if, indeed, he listened at all, with a scoffing, incredulous, hardness of manner, that was more painful than mere carelessness.

When Rowland entered the cell, Howel was sitting with his back to the door, and did not turn or take any notice of the incomers. He had a piece of paper before him, and a pencil in his hand, over which he seemed rather to be dreaming than writing. The gaoler closed the door, having orders to remain without, and left the cousins alone.

Rowland stood some time irresolute in the gloomy cell, but finding that Howel did not move, he went round in front of him, and said,—

'Howel!'

The word was quite sufficient. He started up, and whilst the blood rushed to his face, said coolly,—

'To what am I indebted for the honour of a visit from Mr Prothero? I think I sent you a message to the effect that I am not now in a position to receive company. My chambers are anything but suited to convivial society, and I prefer solitude just at present. I have already had the benefit of clergy, and do not need any of your sermons, excellent as I am told they are. Indeed, divinity was always out of my line.'

'I come to fulfil the dying request of your wife and my sister, which that letter will explain,' said Rowland, calmly and gravely, placing an open letter on the table.

Howel's countenance changed at once—the flush of passion passed away, and left a painful pallor, whilst the sarcastic mouth became compressed into a marble rigidity. He sat down again, and pushing aside the paper that had previously been before him, drew the letter towards him. He put his elbows on the table, and shrouded his face so that Rowland could not see him, and bending over the letter, gazed on the writing without attempting to read, as one might gaze on a spirit without daring to speak to it. The letter was, indeed, a voice from the dead, and dated the very day before that on which Netta died. Its contents were as follows:—

'MY DEAR BROTHER,—I intend leaving Glanyravon, and all my dear relations, to go in search of Howel, who, you know, is my husband; and therefore to be loved and obeyed before any one else. If I die before I find him, as perhaps I may—my heart being so bad—I wish you to see him when he comes back, and to give him the accompanying sealed packet yourself. Nobody knows how I have loved him all my life, and perhaps if I had been better tempered and less jealous, he might have stayed at home, and not been obliged to go away for debt. But when I have found him, I will be very loving and patient, and then we shall be happy together again. If I don't find him, however—if I die first—will you, dear brother, talk to him as you have talked and written to me, and then I may meet him again in a happier world, where I am praying and striving to go, through the atonement of Him who died for sinners—even for me and Howel, who are both great sinners—yet not too great to be saved. Thank you, my dear, dear brother, for showing me the way to heaven, and for all your goodness to me and Minette—(my poor Minette, I must leave her, but you will all take care of her better than I have done). Thank you, I am very sorry that I was such a wilful, perverse sister, when you tried to do me good.

'God bless you for ever and ever—you and all—Your loving but afflicted sister,       NETTA JENKINS.'

Rowland sat down at one end of the cell, on the iron bedstead and that he might not seem to be watching Howel, took a small Testament from his pocket and began to read. This, too, he had brought for Howel. It was the one Netta had used, as long as she lived, and in it she had written, 'To be given to my dear husband, if I die.—Netta.' She had marked many passages, and appended her initials to each of the marks.

Rowland could not read long. It was impossible not to see the trembling of that iron man who sat before him; the heaving breast and the convulsed hands. And yet Howel did not read the letter. He saw the familiar handwriting once more of the only thing he had ever loved—loved and murdered—and he sat transfixed before it.

At last Rowland rose, and going to him, put his hand on his shoulder. He started as if Netta's spirit had appeared, and looked up wildly. Seeing Rowland, he struggled for self-possession and again shrouding his face, began to read.

Rowland kept his hand on his shoulder, gently pressing it, as if to assure him of sympathy. He felt him trembling beneath his touch.

As he stood thus his eye fell on the paper that Howel had had before him when he entered the cell. He could not help seeing the words, 'From my cell in Newgate—my judge and jury.' Underneath this heading appeared to be the commencement of a poem, and beneath that were caricatures of a man in a large wig, and of others, with every variety of nose and chin.

This had been Howel's occupation within four-and-twenty hours of his conviction!

Three times Howel turned the sheet of paper that he was reading, as if he had not understood the words that were written on it, and then he uttered a groan, so deep and loud, that Rowland could restrain himself no longer, but said,—

'Howel, for her sake, listen to me, her brother. Look on me as your friend, your brother.'

Howel looked up, and for one moment there was remorse and agony in his face; the next, no stone was harder and colder.

'Brother!' he said, with a voice of icy sarcasm, 'you have shown yourself my brother of late! I saw you in the court, cold and calculating; not a word for this, your brother! Bah!'

'What would you have had me say?' asked Rowland, recovering his composure, and glancing from Howel to Netta's letter.

'I understand you; you mean that I murdered her. I did, virtually. Then why be hypocrite enough to call me brother?'

'She forgave you, and called you husband.'

'Because she—she loved me.'

There was another involuntary groan, and a brief silence.

'Where are her papers? Give them me, and go,' said Howel imperatively.

Rowland put a neatly-sealed packet on the table, on which was written, 'For my husband, Howel Jenkins;—to the care of my brother, Rowland Prothero. Janetta Jenkins.'

'This, too, she left for you,' said Rowland, putting the small Testament, originally her mother's, on the table. Again the stony lips trembled, the eyes softened. 'Howel, Howel, for her sake!' once more ventured Rowland.

There they lay—the letter, the packet, the Testament. All that was left to him of the once bright, loving, and lovely creature, who had been devoted to him all her life.

He turned the leaves of the Testament mechanically; touched the packet—shuddered; then leaning his head upon his folded arms on the table, burst into an uncontrollable agony of grief.

'She is—she was—where?' he said, after a short interval, rising from his seat, and beginning to pace the cell.

'Her soul is in heaven, I hope and believe; her body rests in Llanfach churchyard, under the large hawthorn bush near the vicarage gate.'

Often and often had Howel gathered Netta bunches of May from that very tree that now sheltered her remains.

'Tell me—- tell me all,' he said, 'from the time I left her, till—how you found her—everything.'

'You must sit down, Howel, and hear me patiently if you can.'

Howel sat down on the bedstead, and again covering his face with both hands, listened; whilst Rowland took the seat he had left, and fulfilled his bidding.

He told him everything that had happened to Netta, from the period of her being left in the lodgings in his parish, until her death at the farm. He felt that the one hope of softening Howel, or doing him any good, was through his love for his wife; he therefore narrated simply what she had suffered and said; he told how that she had been hourly expecting him back, until his one short note; how she had listened for his footsteps, and refused to leave the place where he had left her, until he came. All that her friends had done for her, was introduced incidentally; Howel understood that she had been taken to her relations again, as the prodigal son to his father, but he was not told so.

Rowland did not spare him, however, as regarded Netta. He knew him to be utterly callous as to the follies and crimes of his life; he must, therefore, be made conscious of their weight, through their effects upon others; he knew that they had been the cause of Netta's death, and this would show him the enormity of sin if nothing else would.

As he detailed the wanderings of poor Netta's mind, and then her anxious inquiries of him of the way of salvation for Howel, as well as herself, he was visibly affected. Not even his determination that Rowland should not see his emotion could conceal it; but he did not speak a word. He listened to the end, and then, without uncovering his face, he said in a voice tremulous from emotion,—

'Thank you; now go; and come back to-morrow; I would be alone with her.'

'And to-morrow I must bring your mother,' said Rowland

'No, no, let me see you alone,' was the hasty reply.

'God bless you, Howel, and grant you His help,' said Rowland, passing before the stooping figure.

There was no reply, so, with a heavy sigh and an inward prayer, Rowland left the cell.

THE PENITENT HUSBAND.

The following morning, Rowland again took Mrs Jenkins to her lodging and left her there. It was with very great difficulty that he persuaded Mrs Jenkins to remain behind, and only under a promise to prevail upon Howel to see her immediately after his interview with him.

As he expected, he found Howel almost as cold and impassive as on the previous day. But he fancied that this was an assumed manner, and that he could trace workings of more natural feelings underneath. He was at least civil to him, and instead of receiving him as before, said,—

'I thought you would never come; but I suppose prosperous people are never in a great hurry to visit the unfortunate. Ha! ha! Certainly my reception-rooms are not very inviting.'

'I came as soon as I could gain admittance. I wish you would believe, Howel, that I am very anxious to be of any use to you that I can. You know that you refused to see me before.'

'And it is no great compliment now; this confounded place will kill me. I have been haunted by spectres all the night, five thousand times worse than a voyage to Australia. That will be amusing, ha! ha! But to have my father in one corner, and—and Netta in the other,—and that cursed money rolling about everywhere, just as it did—well, never mind that! but hanging outright would have been better. Don't preach; it is no good; I am far beyond that, and I know you have your sermon ready; but your presence is some relief after such a night. I tell you what it is, Rowland, if you are a better and a happier man than I, it is because you had honest parents; it is no merit of yours, and no fault of mine.'

'Howel, I claim no merit; but we are all responsible for our own actions, God forgive those who set a bad example: they will have to answer for it.'

'Pshaw! Do you think I meant that? I mean that if my father hadn't heaped up all that gold—bah! the word makes me sick,—and denied me a sixpence whilst he lived; and if I hadn't seen my mother rob him whenever she could, and learnt from her to do the same, I shouldn't be here now! No, I should be a plodding shopkeeper, or at least a country lawyer, or doctor, and should have been living in a house with three steps to it, and a portico, by this time, with—don't suppose I regret such a house—but Netta! oh, God! Netta!'

Howel beat his forehead with his hand, and pointed to the corner of his cell.

'There she is! there she has been all the night. Pale as when I laid her on her bed that miserable day!'

'Howel! you loved Netta, I see, and believe it now,' said Rowland.

'You do! And why not before? Ah! I see. Because I have never done anything to prove it. But I did not know how I loved her until I knew how she loved me.'

'Would you prove it now, if you could?'

'Would I? Why do you mock me by such a question?'

'Because she, being dead, yet speaks. Her last wishes, thoughts, words, writing, were for you.'

'Do I not know it? Have I not read? All night have her words not haunted me?'

'And her prayers, Howel? Shall they be forgotten? And that Book in which she wrote last, will you not read it?'

'I don't know. I tried last night, and I could not. I have never read the book since I wrote Greek at school.'

'Netta begged you to read it.'

'What is that to you, Rowland Prothero? Who put you over me as judge and counsellor?'

'Netta. As spiritual counsellor, at least; and in her name, since you will not let me appeal to you in a Higher name, I command you to listen to me.'

Rowland saw that he had gained an advantage by appealing to Netta, and that Howel checked the irony that was on his tongue, out of reverence for her name. At once he spoke as an ambassador in that Higher name he had feared to use before.

Rowland had had ten years' experience of men as bad and worse than Howel, and had learnt how to speak to them, and to seize the mood of the listener. He knew Howel well; and he, therefore, used the strong and powerful language of the Bible, as the priests, prophets, and apostles used it—as the word of God to man. Not diluted by their own reflections, but in its bare and grand simplicity. He had not made the Bible his study in vain. He knew how to bring it to the heart of men with a power that none 'could gainsay or resist,' Even Howel, sceptic, scoffer as he was, listened in spite of himself.

Rowland was a humbler man than he had been, when he used, years before, to argue with Howel, and endeavour to convert him to the truth. He was equally right in his views then, but he gave them forth more dogmatically, and allowed self to peep in; now self was wholly swallowed up in the Word itself; and so Howel gave heed as to God, and not to man.

He laid bare Howel's heart to himself, for the first time that it had ever been so exposed, and then showed him the denunciations of the law against sin. He did not spare him. He knew that the only way to save such a man was by bringing him to know himself first, and then to '' preach repentance and remission of sin.'

In his energy and longing to rescue him from destruction, he stood before him as one sent to tear up his unbelief by the roots not to dally with it.

'Flee from the wrath to come,' might have been the text of his discourse, as it was that of the Baptist.

When he paused, as if for breath, Howel exclaimed,—

'Enough! enough! Stop! I can hear no more; you have opened to me the gates of hell wide enough.'

'And now I would open those of heaven. Let us pray.'

Rowland's eyes flashed such a fire as Howel had never seen in them before; his voice and words had a command that he had never heard. Perforce he obeyed. And there, in that narrow cell, actuated by fear, rather than remorse, astonishment rather than contrition, bowed by a will yet stronger than his own, Howel fell on his knees beside his cousin, and listened to a prayer for pardon and help, that might have melted the heart of a Nero.

At first he heard as in a dream, then his ears were opened, then his heart. And at last Rowland's spirit breathed within him the blessed words, 'Behold he prayeth.'

It is not for us to look into the heart of the criminal, and decide how God works in it. Even Rowland could not tell the ultimate effect of his preaching and prayers. All he knew that from that day Howel welcomed him to his cell as the one hope of his life. He was awakened to a sense of his condition, and Rowland thanked God, and took courage.

As the meetings and partings of parent and child—however wicked they both may be—in the cell of a felon, simply harrow the feelings of the reader, I will pass over those of Howel and his mother. Some recrimination, and much grief on the one side—some remorse, and much misery on the other. Rowland did what he could for both until the last parting was over. And then he left the mother to the care of Mrs Jones to accompany the son on board the ship that was to convey him to his convict home.

We are not to suppose that the 'Ethiopian's skin' was changed because it was pierced. Howel continued outwardly proud, scornful, and hard to the last; but Rowland witnessed the struggle that went on within to maintain that bearing, and knew that some good might arise even out of the spendthrift and the forger.

'You will take care of Minette amongst you, for her mother's sake,' he said to Rowland.

'And for yours, and her own,' was the reply.

'Tell her not to hate her father. You who never told her mother of my—I suppose I must use the word—crime, will be as gentle as you can in letting the child know who and what her father is. I thank you all, more for keeping her in ignorance till death, than for all the rest.'

'And for her sake, Howel, you will read that book, and pray to be kept from temptation.'

'What temptation shall I have? I shall be more inclined to pray to be thrown into temptation.'

'Oh, Howel!'

'Well! This convict ship and the ocean, and chains and hard labour at the end, don't seem very inviting. I know it has been my own fault and my father's, but that doesn't make it better; however, I will try. And if ever I get back to Old England again a reformed character, will you lend me a helping hand, or turn your back upon me?'

'Give you the hand of friendship and brotherhood.'

'Thank you; and don't let them quite desert my mother. Bad as she is, I am worse, and I have ruined her; a worse thing that than getting a little money out of those turf-dupes and idiots, though hers was ill-gotten wealth.'

'We will take care of your mother amongst us as well as we can. My mother never forsakes an old friend.'

'Give my love to her; she was kind to me and to my child. All the rest have deserted me, and wished me hanged. But I have to thank you, who always despised me, for being here now, and for your anxiety about me. Rowland, you are a better fellow than I thought you, and you have helped to rid me of some of those spectres that haunted me night and day. You must go! I know it. Alone! alone! with this crew! Is this Heaven's law or man's? and I was not made for this. I shall destroy myself—I must—I will. Good-bye! oh Rowland! cousin! brother! remember me, for God's sake and for hers!'

The hands of the minister of the Gospel and the felon were clasped for a few seconds, as if they could never unlink, and then, with a heavy groan, Howel sank down upon some timber that was near him, and covered his face with his hands. Thick tears filled Rowland's eyes as he stooped over his wretched cousin, and again whispered, 'God bless you, cousin Howel, God bless you.'

And so they parted.

GLADYS REAPING HER FRUITS.

Our story began at Glanyravon, in the cheery month of June, and at Glanyravon, in the same cheery month, we will end it.

I must beg my readers to pass over in their imaginations one twelvemonth, of which I do not mean to say anything, and to accompany me to the gate at Glanyravon Farm, where they first made acquaintance with Mrs Prothero and Gladys. A hasty glance will suffice to show that all is much the same at this said gate as it was ten years ago, save and except that the extraneous accompaniments are changed. Instead of a group of Irish beggars and a dying girl, it is surrounded by a party of well-dressed peasants in high, smooth hats and striped flannel gowns. Moreover, it is surrounded by an arch of evergreens and flowers, of most tasteful form and beautiful colour.

We will not linger here at present, but pursue our way along the road. We meet more peasants, in holiday costume, talking and laughing together, with Miss Gwynne's school children in their scarlet cloak and best frocks. They all seem to be lingering about, with nothing to do, and enjoying their idleness and June holiday as thoroughly as the greatest philanthropist in the world could desire. As we approach the entrance of the Park, we see another magnificent arch spanning the road. We turn to the large iron gates, and they, too, are circled with laurels and roses.

We walk through the gates, and to the right, far in amongst the trees, are long lines of tables covered with white, and bearing the remains of a huge feast, at which, we take it for granted, the people we have met have been regaled. Scattered here and there amongst the oaks, elms, and ashes are more peasants and school children amusing themselves variously.

We pursue our way up the drive until we come to the memorable oak, under which words were spoken greatly influencing the fates of two of the individuals in whom I have been endeavouring to interest my readers. From this venerable tree to another, almost as venerable, hangs another wreath, flanked with banners. We reach the house, and another garland entirely surrounds the door. White roses and lillies of the valley make the air heavy with their breath, drawn out by the attractive rays of the beaming afternoon sun.

We enter the hall, and peep into the different rooms. In the dining-room is the remains of an ample repast. At the head of the table is an enormous cake, covered with silver doves and ornaments of all kinds; servants are drinking the remains of champagne out of glasses and bottles with healths innumerable. In the library and hall, children in white frocks, with silver bows fastened to them, pattering to and fro in unchecked excitement. In the drawing-room we pause, and listen to the conversation that is passing between Mr Gwynne, Lady Mary, Colonel and Mrs Gwynne Vaughan, and Sir Hugh Pryse.

'I am so thankful it is over, and that it has all gone off so well,' says Lady Mary.

'Really, Lady Mary,' says Mr Gwynne, 'great thanks are due to you for the admirable manner in which you managed everything. I think it was wonderful that we amalgamated, and all that sort of thing, don't you, Gwynne?'

Colonel Vaughan replies, yawning,—

'I don't know what on earth we shall do without Freda! And she to throw herself away upon that stupid London parish, where all her charming manner and talent will be lavished upon ragged schools and missionary meetings. I wish she had never come back.'

'Oh, Gwynne, I'm thure Mr Prothero ith very nithe, and tho gentlemanlike and good and handthome. And, you know, clergymen are ath good ath any one in London.'

'Prothero is better than most, I think,' says Sir Hugh, 'because there is no humbug about him. And I'm sure, since Freda wouldn't have me, I'm glad she had him, though I never guessed she liked him; I used to think she liked you best, Vaughan.'

The colonel sighs.

'Oh! I never flattered myself so far, I wish—'

'Certainly, I could not have believed the Protheros were such superior people,' says Lady Mary. 'As to Mr Owen and his wife, they might be introduced into any society.'

'Thweetly pretty, Gladyth ith, I never thought tho much of her before,' lisps Mrs Vaughan. 'Tho interethting the looked in that dreth, the one the wath married in, my maid thaith.'

'I was obliged to call at the farm myself, to induce old Prothero and his wife to come,' says Mr Gwynne, 'Freda wished it so much; I cannot say I did: you see it was rather awkward. But he did not change his old manner towards me—or—in fact—you know, Sir Hugh he might have been—'

'Bumptious,' breaks in Sir Hugh; 'exactly, not a bit of it. They're better behaved. Besides, there was Mrs Jonathan to support the honour of the family, and her husband the learning.'

'Yes,' says Lady Mary; '' it is a comfort that they are really gentlefolks. And Mr and Mrs Jones too—in short, with the exception of the parents, after all, there is no great objection. Many girls make worse matches. Only they live so near.'

Here little Harold comes bouncing into the room, followed by the other children.

'Mamma! papa! do you know I am going to marry Minette, I told her so; her name is Victoria, after the Queen, she said. I shall go to see her to-morrow; she is bigger than Minnie, and looked prettier in her veil. Didn't Dot look funny in a veil? Dot nearly cried, but Aunt Freda gave her some cake. Why did Mr Prothero come, papa? isn't he a farmer?'

'And isn't your papa a farmer? and am not I a farmer, Master Harold?' exclaims Sir Hugh, catching the boy up in his arms.

'I am so sorry Aunt Freda is going away,' says quiet little Minnie to her mother.

'And tho am I, my dear.'

'And tho am I, mamma,' lisps Dot, exactly as lisps her mamma.

'I hope she will be happy,' says Mr Gwynne, aside to the colonel; 'do you think she will?'

'Yes, I am sure she will; she is evidently sincerely attached to Rowland Prothero, and he to her. He is a good man and a gentleman, one cannot deny that. Pshaw! why am I so sorry she is gone? we shall miss her dreadfully after this twelvemonth.'

'Thank you, Gwynne; she has been very good and kind to us all; so much improved, and she told me she owed it all to Rowland. Well, I liked him from the first. You saw the Bible his school children gave him, and the presents from his parishioners and the letter from the bishop, so complimentary, you know, so flattering, and all that sort of thing. God bless them,'

Mr Gwynne very nearly begins to cry, and Colonel Vaughan feels inclined to join; but by way of consoling himself, says,—

'I shall go and see the Protheros sometimes now. I never saw anything in my life so lovely as that younger Mrs Prothero.'

'Take care, my dear,' cries Lady Mary to her daughter; 'the colonel is going to visit the fair Gladys.'

'Oh! I thant allow that, Gwynne, the ith much too pretty.'

'Let us go out and look at the people before dinner,' says Colonel Vaughan; 'I must say it was cruel of Freda to refuse to have a party. This is fearfully dull; the vicar and his wife, or Mr and Mrs Jones would have been better than nobody.'

'Much obliged!' says Sir Hugh.

As all the party go into the Park, we will follow them, and leaving them there, retrace our steps to the farm.

There is high tea going on in the parlour, and a pleasant, cheerful party they are, assembled round the tea-table. Gladys in the wedding-gown, with a colour on her cheeks and a light in her eyes that were not there in former days, presides. Owen divides his attentions between her and some object in the corner of the room; first jumping up to peep into this curtained curiosity, and then returning to put cream into the tea-cups, hand the cakes and bread and butter, or do any and everything that his loving and lovely Gladys asks him, with whom he is just as much in love as ever.

Mr Jones and Mr Prothero sit on either side of Gladys, and seem to vie with one another in showing a father's and uncle's affection to her. Next to Mr Jones we have Mrs Prothero, looking more like what she looked when first we saw her, than she has done for years. Then Mr Jonathan and Mrs Jones; and between Mrs Jones and Owen we are glad to see poor Mrs Jenkins, very kindly treated by her neighbours, and dressed in the moiré and a handsome shawl; then Mrs Jonathan, in the richest of silks, and the loveliest of caps; and, finally, Minette between her and her grandfather; completing a 'round table' more cheerful and natural than that of King Arthur.

Through the open window and white netted curtains—Gladys' treasured work—the roses and sunbeams look in together, and the distant mountains are blue and hazy as the sky. Flowers are on the mantel-piece and tables, bridal-favours are scattered here and there. Above all, there is a large white and silver bow, surmounting that 'curiosity' in the corner, towards which all eyes occasionally turn. Perhaps we may as well peep within the little white curtains.

There lies a wee baby, fast asleep, with its tiny hand outside the coverlet, and its lace cap on the little pillow. 'Netta,' is the name of that small fragment of humanity. Owen and Gladys' first-born.

Having surveyed the company, we will listen to their conversation.

'Well, father, don't you feel vain-glorious to-day?' says Owen, stopping suddenly on his way to the cradle, and pulling his father's grey whisker.

'I feel very thankful that it is all over, and very unnatural.'

'Not unnatural, David, bach,' says his wife.

'Yes, unnatural. It was never intended for Miss Gwynne to be my daughter-in-law, and I breakfasting at the Park. I felt like a hog in armour, fidgeting inside and out.'

'Perhaps it was never intended for me to be your daughter, either,' says Gladys, looking archly at the farmer.

'Treue for you, my dear. That was a piece of luck that came without my seeking, and I like it all the better for that reason, I suppose.'

'I am sure you may rejoice in the present Mrs Rowland Prothero,' says Mrs Jonathan; 'and you certainly need not imagine, for one moment, that she is degrading herself by marrying your son. In London he is in the first society, and meets people constantly, on equal terms, who would quite throw your Lady Marys into the shade. Does he not, Mr Jones?'

'I cannot quite enter into these points, ma'am,' says Mr Jones; 'but he and his bride are as well suited to one another as any young people I ever saw, and will be a blessing to their parish and their friends.'

'Besides, if you come to family, brother David,' says Mr Jonathan, 'ours is of considerable antiquity, and I cannot think how it got Anglicised into Prothero. You know I have been enabled to trace it back to Rhyddrch, or Rhodri, a prince who fought with and frequently defeated Ethelbald. You may not be aware, Mrs Jones, that our name, properly Prydderch, means Ap Rhyddrch, and that we owe it to this illustrious source.'

'Now, aunt,' exclaims Owen, 'never mention the Payne Perrys again. Why, you cannot light a candle to us. I am sure your Herefordshire Perry can't date back to the conquest, and here are we long before it. What date, uncle?'

'720, Owen. And I wish you, as the eldest son, would begin to write your name in the proper way. I contemn, absolutely, this altering our fine old language into that jargon of Anglo-Saxon, Danish, Norman, and French, now yclept English.

'Very well, uncle, let us spell it R, H, Y, D, D, R, C, H,—eight consonants without the aid of one single vowel. I declare the very name is courage itself,—no auxiliary forces. Gladys, I beg you will always sign yourself so when you write to Mrs Jones; and be sure you spell your own name as it ought to be spelt,—G, W, L, A, D, Y, S. Even this shows the weakness of the female sex; you do require one little vowel to help along the consonants,'

'Ha, ha, ha!' shouts Mr Prothero, 'he has you now, brother Jo.'

'Not at all. Owen seems to have forgotten that w and y are vowels. But he never had a taste for study, Rowland is quite different; and our dear niece, Claudia, is much better suited to him than to Owen, for she appreciates the wisdom of a past age.'

'The little hypocrite,' cries Owen. 'She doesn't—'

'I never could have supposed Lady Mary could be so affable,' interrupts Gladys, fearing a dispute.

'She can be anything she likes,' says Mrs Jones. 'She pressed me and Mr Jones to stay there to-day, but I could not have done so without Freda. She was especially kind all last week, and resolved to go through everything properly. I told her that your uncle could only stay two clear days, and that we had promised to spend them here. It is such a relief to be here, Mr Gwynne and Mrs Gwynne Vaughan are very well; but her ladyship's constant tact and effort to do exactly the right thing are wearying.'

'Do my Laddy Marry be very grand? Grander than Laddy Simpson, Mrs Jones?' asked Mrs Jenkins, in an undertone, of her neighbour. She has an infinite awe of Mrs Jonathan.

'I don't think I ever saw Lady Simpson,' says Mrs Jones,

'Not be seeing Laddy Simpson! Well, it is no loss for you. She was as ugly an 'ooman as I ever was seeing. I am hating the Simpsons, and no wonder. But Miss Gwynne is a lady,—Mrs Rowland Prothero, I am meaning. She was coming to see me the other day, and says she, "I know you have been unfortunate Mrs Jenkins, fach! and no fault of yours." And she was giving me this new white shoal. And, seure, if it wasn't for Rowland Prothero and she, I 'oudn't be in that tidy cottage by there, with Mrs Owen and my grandoater coming to see me and reading to me; and Mrs Prothero too, is seure, and bringing me something nice, and my Griffey with hundreds of thousands, Mrs Jones, as you was knowing,'