Gladys, the Reaper

THE NURSE.

Mrs Prothero continued very ill, and the doctor said there was no chance of her amendment until her mind was more at ease. Four days had passed, and no intelligence of Netta. Each day found her worse than the preceding, and brain fever was apprehended. Gladys nursed her day and night. Mr Prothero stormed and lamented by turns. Owen did what he could to assist and comfort all, and Miss Gwynne and Miss Hall sent every kind of nourishing food from the Park.

On the fifth morning, Owen rode into the town in the vague hope that he should hear something of his sister, either through Mrs Jenkins's servant or the post. Mrs Jenkins had not returned, but there was a neat, smooth letter for his father, directed by Howel, with which he rode off homewards at full gallop. He longed to open it, but he dared not. He was fearful that his father would put it into the fire unread, so he formed twenty plans for securing it, which he knew he could not carry out; however, when he returned home and sought his father in the harvest field, he said,—

'Father, I have a letter directed by Howel. Will you let me open it for mother's sake?'

'If it is yours, do what you will with it? if it is mine, burn it unread.'

'But, father, surely you would do something to save mother's life. Any news of Netta—'

'Don't name that girl to me, sir, or I'll horsewhip you!'

'May I open the letter, father?'

'Do as you will, but don't let me see it. The deceitful up-start! the pompous fool! the—the—'

Owen waited for no more epithets but ran into the house, and stumbling upon Gladys in the passage, told her to come and see what the letter contained. When he opened the outer envelope and took out the beautiful little glossy note with its silver border and white seal, stamped with a small crest of an eagle, he burst out laughing.

'Cards, by jingo!' he exclaimed.

'Oh, Mr Owen, just let me cut round the neat little seal. I am sure your mother would like to see it,' said Gladys, joining involuntarily in the laugh, and taking a pair of scissors out of her pocket.

The seal was cut, and two cards were taken out, silver-lettered and silver-bordered, showing that Netta was now Mrs Howel Jenkins.

Gladys ran off with them without asking any questions, followed by Owen. They found Mrs Prothero crying, as she usually was when left alone.

'I hope we have good news, ma'am,' said Gladys.

'All right, mother. Cheer up! Netta is married at any rate,' cried Owen.

'Thank God!' said Mrs Prothero, taking the cards and pressing them to her lips. 'But not a line—not a word from Netta!'

'She would not dare to write, ma'am,' suggested Gladys.

'I suppose not? but why did she go away? Why did she leave me never to see me again?'

The following day brought the Welshman, Mr Prothero's weekly treat, which it generally took him the week thoroughly to read and enjoy.

Owen chanced to open it first, and, as is usually the case, stumbled at once upon the marriage of his sister. When his father came in he was in uncontrollable fits of laughter.

'Don't be angry, father, but I can't help it. Ha, ha, ha! D. Prothero, Esq. of Glanyravon! Oh, I shall die of it! Now, really, father, you ought to be proud.'

'What are you making such a row about?' said Mr Prothero looking over Owen's shoulder.

His eye caught the words, 'Howel Jenkins, Esq., and Miss Prothero, Glanyravon, and Sir John Simpson. This was quite enough. He seized the paper with an oath, crumpled it up, and thrust it into the fire, and gave Owen such a violent blow on the back with his fist, that the young man's first impulse was to start up and clench his in return; however, his flush of passion cooled in a moment, and he said,—

'Come, father! remember it isn't I that ran away. Time enough to give me a licking when I do. I'm much obliged to you for letting me know what a strong father I've got.'

'Once for all, Owen, take you care how you laugh upon that subject or name it to me. I can give and take a joke as well as most people, but not about that, sir, and from you. Name o' goodness, what d'ye think I'm made of!'

The farmer walked out of the hall, and left Owen heartily sorry for having hurt his father's feelings, but chuckling over the fashionable marriage.

The following morning he managed to procure another paper, and read his mother and Gladys the announcement, knowing full well that maternal pride must rejoice in the exaltation, whilst it wept over the disobedience of an only daughter.

To the astonishment of every one, the following morning brought Mrs Griffith Jenkins to Glanyravon, attended by her maid-servant. Gladys answered the door to the thundering double-knock that resounded through the house, and was quite taken aback when she saw who the visitor was.

'Is Mrs Prothero at home, young 'ooman?' asked Mrs Jenkins in a grand tone of voice.

'My mistress is very ill, ma'am,' said Gladys.

'Ill! Since when?'

'Ever since Miss Netta left, ma'am.'

'Do Mr Prothero be in the house, or Mr Owen?'

'They are out harvesting, ma'am.'

'Tell you Mrs Prothero that I do bring message from Mrs Howel Jenkins for her, and that I was promising to give it myself.'

Gladys did not know what to do. She felt sure that Mr Prothero would not admit Mrs Jenkins under his roof, and that her mistress would be afraid to do so; however, she ventured to ask her to come in and wait a little time whilst she sent for Mr Owen. Fortunately, Owen was not far from the house, and Mr Prothero was riding to some distant part of his farm, so Gladys left Mrs Jenkins to Owen, and went upstairs to tell Mrs Prothero that she was in the house. Mrs Prothero was greatly agitated, but declared that she would see her at all risks, and tell her husband that she had done so. She begged Gladys to remain in the room during the visit, and to prevent a meeting between Mrs Jenkins and Mr Prothero.

Gladys went downstairs again, and found Owen telling Mrs Jenkins what he thought of Howel's and her own conduct.

'My mistress would like to see you, ma'am,' said Gladys.

'I'm thinking I 'ont go near her now, you, Owen, have been so reude.'

'Oh, for that much, you may do as you please, Aunt 'Lizbeth. I shall have the pleasure of going with you to my mother. You've pretty nearly killed her amongst you, and I don't mean to let her be quite put an end to.'

'Will you be showing the way, young 'ooman,' said Mrs Jenkins, rising majestically and smoothing down a very handsome silk dress, which she had carefully taken up before she sat down.

Owen's wrath was turned to amusement

'Did you think we hadn't a duster in the house, aunt? I can tell you you've pretty well dirtied that white petticoat.'

Gladys led the way to Mrs Prothero's room, and Mrs Jenkins and Owen followed.

'I'm sorry to see you so poorly, cousin,' said Mrs Jenkins, approaching the bed on which Mrs Prothero lay, looking flushed and excited.

'What did you expect, 'Lizabeth Jenkins? when you have carried off my daughter—my child—my Netta! And caused misery in our house never to be mended.'

'Well, seure! One 'ould think we'd murdered Netta, 'stead of making her as grand as a queen, with a lord and a lady to be giving her away, and a captain to be at the wedding, and a gentleman in a waistcoat and chains and rings that do be worth a hundred pounds at least, and a young lady for bridesmaid in a shoall of lace, handsomer than your Miss Gwynne of the Park, and a wedding-cake covered with sugar, and silver, and little angels, and all sorts of things which I was bringing with me for you; and a clergy like a bishop to marry her, and a coach and horses to be taking her back and fore, and she looking as beauty and happy as ever I was seeing! And my Howel's as rich and fine as anybody in London, Prince Albert nothing to him, and might be marrying Miss Simpson, my ladyship's doter, if he wasn't so fullish as to be marrying your Netta!'

'Now, aunt, it is our turn, if you please,' said Owen, as soon as Mrs Jenkins gave him time to speak. 'Will you tell my mother Netta's message?'

'I am taking it very unkind that you should all turn upon me. David Prothero I 'spected 'ould be in a passion, but, stim odds! Netta said, cousin, that I wos to tell you she was sorry to be leaving you in a hurry, but that she had everything she could be wishing, gowns, and white shoes, and lace veils—seure you never wos seeing such a beauty—and a stafell—trosy they do call it in London—good enough for my Lady Nugent, and a goold watch and chains, and rings and bracelets, ach un wry! there's grand!'

'But what did Netta say to me, cousin 'Lizbeth? I don't care if she was all gold from head to foot. I would rather have her here in rags,' said Mrs Prothero, bursting afresh into tears.

'She's more likely to be here in satins and velvets, cousin,' said Mrs Jenkins, rising from her seat, and walking up and down, apparently in great wrath. 'What you think of my Howels and your Netta at Abertewey: And you to be all toalking as if we wos ail dirt. And they in France, over the sea, where I 'ould be going with them only I am so 'fraid of the water.'

'There's a loss it would be, Aunt 'Lizbeth, if anything had happened to you! Suppose a shark had swallowed you up! gold watch, mourning ring, silk gown, brooch, and all? Those creatures aren't particular. But we haven't had all Netta's message yet.'

'She was sending her kind love and duty to you, cousin, and was saying she was sorry to be leaving you, but my Howels was so kind as you, and she was as happy as could be.'

'Did she cry, cousin? did she shed one tear?' asked Mrs Prothero, sitting up in bed, and looking at Mrs Jenkins with a quick, wild eye, quite unlike her usual quiet glance.

'You needn't be looking at me so fierce, cousin, I didn't be killing Netta. Is seure—she did cry enough, if that's a pleasure to you. She was crying when she was meeting my Howels; she was crying when she was putting on her wedding gown; she was crying when the parson was preaching that sermon, and when the thunder and lightning did frighten her, seure, and no wonder—'

'Did it thunder and lighten when they were married? 'asked Mrs Prothero, through her sobs.

'Yes, indeet! I thoate I should be struck myself; but she was soon forgetting it at breakfast; they do call it breakfast, you see, but I never was seeing a grander dinner. Chickens, and tongue, and ham, and meats, and cakes, and jellies, and fruit, and wines, all froathing up like new milk, some sort of pain they was calling it; but I never did be seeing such good pain or tasting it before, he! he!'

'I don't care about the dress or the dinner, or the grand people, cousin,' said Mrs Prothero, 'I pray God to forgive Howel for making our only girl run away from us like a thief in the night; and I would rather hear she cried for us whom she treated so badly, than that she was dressed in velvet and jewels. All those fine people and fine things won't make her happy, and her father will never forgive her, never. Oh dear! oh dear!'

'What will I tell her, Mrs Prothero, when I do write to my son Howels?'

'Tell her—tell her that my heart is breaking; but I forgive her. Beg her not to forget her parents, and, above all, not to forget her God. Poor child! poor silly, thoughtless child, she will never be happy again.'

'Indeet to goodness, this is fullish! I shall go, Mrs Prothero. Good morning.'

Just as Mrs Jenkins was making a kind of curtsey by the bedside Gladys said that she saw Mr Prothero riding up to the house.

'Perhaps you had better make haste, Aunt 'Lizbeth,' said Owen, 'it would not very well do for you and my father to meet.'

'I 'ont be running away from any man's house, Mr Owen. I do hope I'm as good as your father any day.'

'Oh, pray make haste,' said Mrs Prothero, very much frightened. 'Good-bye, cousin. Forgive me if I have been rude? I beg your pardon.'

'This way, ma'am, if you please,' said Gladys, opening the door; but Mrs Jenkins was smoothing down her silk dress, and arranging her bonnet in the looking glass.

'Quite ready for another husband, aunt; but you had better make haste, you don't know what you may come in for if you meet my father.'

'I am not caring neither,' said the little woman, sweeping across the room and out at the door. At the top of the stair she met Mr Prothero, face to face. The effect of her appearance upon that worthy man is not to be described. She made a kind of curtsey and began to speak, but no sooner did she see his face than she held her tongue. Neither did words appear to come at the farmer's bidding, but very decided deeds did. He took the alarmed Mrs Jenkins by the two shoulders, literally lifted her from the ground, carried her downstairs a great deal faster than she came up, helped her along the passage much in the same way, and with something very nearly approaching a kick and an oath, turned her out of doors, and shut the door behind her with so violent a bang that it echoed through the house.

Owen ran down stairs to receive the first brunt of his passion, and to prevent his going up to his mother. He allowed the words that came at last to have way, and then took all the fault on himself; said that he had admitted Mrs Jenkins to try to soothe his mother, and that she had done so, he thought.

'Take you care, sir, how you let that 'ooman darken my doors again, or any one belonging to her. It'll be worse for you than for them,' said Mr Prothero, with a brow like a thunder cloud.

His wrath was interrupted by the sound of wheels, and to Owen's great relief, he saw the head of his uncle's well known grey mare through the window. He ran out to admit him and his aunt.

'We have just seen Mrs Jenkins, Owen,' began his aunt.

'Not a word to father, aunt.'

'Very well. But she stopped us and began telling us that she had been turned out of these doors, and would have the law on your father. She was furious; talked of Netta and Howel, and your mother, and Paris, and the wedding, all in the same breath, and would not let us go on until we had heard all. Neither of us spoke to her, but she stood at the horse's head and frightened me to death.'

When they all went into the hall, they found that Mr Prothero was not there. Gladys came in and said he was with her mistress, but had not mentioned Mrs Jenkins.

'I am afraid she has made my mistress worse, sir,' she said to Owen. 'She has been very faint ever since she left,'

In truth she had made her worse, and when Dr Richards came to see her that afternoon, she was quite delirious. He shook his head, and declared that she had brain fever, and that the utmost quiet and freedom from all excitement were necessary for her. Poor Mr Prothero was beside himself, and the whole household was in great consternation. Serious illness had never visited either the farm or the vicarage before, and none of the Prothero family knew what it was. Not so Gladys, however. She did not wait to be directed or ordered, but took her post as nurse by her dear mistress's bedside. To her the doctor gave his directions, to her Mr Prothero turned for information, to her Owen came for comfort; and even Mrs Jonathan, who had scarcely ever spoken to her before, looked to her as the only hope in this time of uncertainty.

'I have seen all kind of fevers,' she would say to one and another as they questioned her, 'worse than this, and with God's grace the dear mistress will recover. I am not afraid to sit up alone with her, oh, no! It is better not to have too many in the room at once. Do not be uneasy, master, the delirium is not very bad. Yes, Mr Owen, you can do better than any one else, because you are calmer. No, ma'am, it is not an infectious fever—you need not be afraid,' and so from one to another at intervals she went, giving hope and comfort.

During all that night and several successive ones, Gladys sat up with her beloved mistress. It was she who listened to her disturbed, delirious talk about Netta, and tried to console her; she who read the Bible to her, and prayed with and for her during the intervals of reason, and she who gave her all her medicines and nourishment.

Poor Mr Prothero could do nothing but wander from the fields to the house, and the house back again to the fields, followed by his brother like his shadow, who strove to comfort him in vain. Mrs Jonathan made jellies, and did her best. Owen was gentle and tender as a girl, and helped to nurse his mother with a love and care that Gladys could scarcely understand in the lighthearted, wild sailor.

Before the end of the week, they wrote to summon Rowland, for Mrs Prothero's life was despaired of, and great was the anxiety and terror of all, lest he should come too late.

'Pray for her, Mr Owen, pray for her. There is nothing else of any avail at such a time as this,' would Gladys say in answer to the young man's entreating glance.

'If I were as good as you I could, Gladys. Oh, God! spare my beloved mother!' he would reply.

THE CURATE.

Although it was a bright autumn morning, the stillness of death hovered over Glanyravon Farm. There was scarcely a sound to be heard within or without. The men in the yard moved about like spectres, and work was suspended in the harvest fields; whispers circulated from bedroom to kitchen, and from kitchen to outhouse, that the good and kind mistress whom every body loved, was on her deathbed; and how should they labour? All the talk of the farm-servants was upon subjects ominous of death. One said that he had heard Lion, the big watch-dog, howl long and loud before daylight; another that he had seen a corpse candle as he went homewards the previous evening; a third that she had seen her mistress all in white at her bedside, looking beautiful; a fourth that she had heard a raven croak; in short, if sighs and wonders could kill poor Mrs Prothero, there was little chance for her life. Where every one was usually so busy, so full of energy and spirit, there was more than a Sabbath calm. They were expecting some one, too, for Tom and Bill were looking down the road about every five minutes, whilst Shanno appeared now and again at the back door, and whispered 'Is he coming?' to which a shake of the head was a constant reply.

The doctor had just gone into the house, and knots of men and women stood about with sorrowful faces; kind neighbours who came one after another to hear the last report as soon as he should again reappear. Mrs Prothero was greatly beloved, and no one could afford to lose her.

'She was so bad last night that she was not expected to see the morning,' whispered one.

'Couldn't take a drop of anything,' said another.

'Is talking of Miss Netta for ever,' said a third.

'There'll be a loss to every one. Mr Jonathan prayed for her in church last Sunday; if prayers'll save her she 'ont die, no seure.'

'She gave me a jug of milk only Friday week.'

'And was coming to see my John in the measles Wednesday before Miss Netta ran away.'

'She's the death of her mother I always say.'

'Poor master is nearly mad.'

'And Mr Owen crying like a baby.'

'And they do say that the Irish girl is better than a daughter to 'em all.'

'Hush! I do hear wheels. Oh! if he do come, perhaps he may rouse her up a bit.'

The gates were open, and before the last whisper was over Mr Gwynne's carriage was driving down to the farm. The bystanders drew back as it rolled through a part of the yard and stopped at the door. Rowland got out, and was in the house almost before any one could see him. He went into the hall, and there he saw Miss Gwynne, Miss Hall, and Dr Richards. Miss Gwynne held out her hand, and said at once,—'Your mother is still alive.'

'Thank God I!' exclaimed Rowland, giving a sort of convulsive gasp, and wringing the hand that pressed his.

'Is there any hope?' he asked of Dr Richards.

'The crisis is at hand, and she is insensible; it is impossible to say—if we could rouse her?'

'I may go upstairs?'

'Yes, but you had better let your father know you are come; he is in the outer room.'

Rowland went at once to what had been his own bedroom in former times; he opened the door gently, and there alone on his knees by the bedside, groaning audibly, was his poor stricken father. He went up softly to him and whispered, 'Father, it is I, Rowland!' and Mr Prothero rose, and in a few seconds went with him into the room where the beloved wife and mother lay.

Rowland went up to the bedside, and took the place which Gladys silently vacated for him. He gazed upon what appeared to him to be death, but was really the prostration and insensibility that followed the delirium and fever of the past week. He bent down and kissed the cold forehead of his mother, then turned away, covered his face with his hands, and wept silently. Gladys whispered to him that there was still hope, and resumed her occupation of bathing the temples with vinegar, wetting the lips with wine, and administering tea spoonfuls of wine, which still continued to find a passage down the throat. Mrs Jonathan Prothero crept softly up to Rowland, and put her hand in his—Owen came to him—his uncle—all were there.

But as soon as he had recovered from his temporary emotion, he went to his father's side, who had seated himself on a chair behind the curtain of the bed, and tried to comfort him. The presence of his second son was in itself a consolation to poor Mr Prothero; but he could not listen to his words.

'Pray for your mother, Rowland,' was all he could say.

Rowland knelt down with all those present, except Gladys, who joined in spirit and prayed. Never before had he known what it was to use the prayers of his church for one so dear to him; never before had he felt the great difficulty of reading them when his emotion nearly choked his utterance. But as priest and son he prayed fervently for his mother.

Mr Prothero seemed calmer after he rose from his knees, and ventured to lean over his wife to assure himself that she still breathed. There was an occasional slight pulsation scarcely to be called breath.

The doctor came in and felt her pulse. It was not quite gone, and whilst there was life there was hope.

They stood round her bed watching the calm, pale face with a love and anxiety so intense that they could neither speak nor breathe. Gladys looked almost as pale as her mistress, and as the light fell upon her when she was leaning over her, she might have been the angel of death herself.

Mrs Jonathan Prothero drew Rowland from the room and insisted upon his taking some refreshment. He had travelled all night, and Mr Gwynne, at his daughter's request, had sent his carriage to meet him.

Miss Gwynne and Miss Hall were still waiting downstairs. They asked Mrs Jonathan if they could be of any use in taking Gladys's place whilst the poor girl got some rest; Mrs Jonathan said it was useless to urge her to leave her mistress for a moment.

Rowland thanked Miss Gwynne for her kindness, and she said she would do anything in the world for Mrs Prothero.

She and Miss Hall went away in the carriage that brought Rowland, promising to return again in the afternoon.

When Rowland had swallowed some coffee, he went back to his mother's room. As he walked from the door to the foot of the bed, she opened her eyes, and seemed for a moment to look at him; a thrill of hope shot through him. He went round and took her hand, and whispered, 'Mother!' Did she smile? He thought she did.

Shortly afterwards her lips moved, and Gladys heard the name ever on them, 'Netta.' This was better, far better, than that death-like trance.

'Mother, dear mother,' again whispered Rowland, and once more her eyes opened and fixed on him, with something like consciousness.

At last an opiate which the doctor had given took effect, and she slept; her pulse was so weak, and her breathing so faint, that at first the watchers thought she was passing away into that sleep from which there is no awakening; but it was not so. It was a weak troubled sleep; still it was a sleep.

By degrees all left the room but Rowland and Gladys. Mrs Prothero's hand seemed to be clasping that of her son, as if it would not let go; and Gladys never moved from the bedside.

She saw that there must be hope if real sleep came. As she sat down in a kind of easy chair that Owen had placed for her by the bedside, she thanked God for this amount of hope,

'Sleep, Gladys, I will watch,' whispered Rowland.

And truly the poor girl had need of rest. Scarce had she closed her eyes during that anxious week, and she knew well how necessary rest was to her. But she felt as if she could not sleep whilst this uncertainty lasted. All the anxious faces of the household flitted before her when she tried to compose herself. Her poor master, his brother, Mrs Jonathan, Rowland, but mostly Owen. He who had said the least, had shown the greatest self-command and done the most. His large kind eyes seemed to be looking at his mother or at her, and trying to anticipate their wants. His hands so brown and sinewy, yet so very gentle, seemed to be touching hers, as they had done when moving his mother or otherwise helping in the sick-room. His cheery voice seemed to be telling her not to weary herself so much, or to be thanking her for the care she bestowed upon his dear parent. In vain she tried to put aside this kind of haunting vision. Her mistress and Owen were painted on the over-strained retina, and she could not efface the picture. She prayed for them, for all. Then, as the afternoon sunlight faded away, and a twilight hue crept over the room, with just a flickering streak of light playing on the wall opposite to her, the death-beds of her father, mother, sister, and brothers rose up before her with a vivid reality that made her tremble, and forced tears from her weary eyes. The tears seemed a relief, and as they flowed quietly down her cheeks, and the coming shadows dispersed the visions of the living, dying, and dead faded away, a mist fell on her eyes and she slept.

Rowland, meanwhile, watched his mother. During the twelve months that he had been a curate in a parish in one of the worst parts of London, he had seen much of the sick and the dying. He had seen poverty, wretchedness, and sin in their most dreadful aspects, and the peace and comfort of his mother's present condition were a great contrast to the riot and squalor of many a death room into which he had sought to carry the gospel message of mercy. Truly he felt thankful in his inmost soul that she, over whom he was watching with filial love, was ready at any moment to appear before the great Tribunal, because she 'believed and knew in whom she believed.' It was for Netta, his beloved and wayward sister, the cause of this first great family trouble, that he grieved the most, because he feared that she had entered upon that downward path that would lead her far astray from the one in which her mother had so long and happily trod. But he, too, knew where to apply in all his times of doubt and misgiving, and thither he went for comfort as the shadows fell around and night crept on.

Mrs Jonathan Prothero came noiselessly into the room, bringing in a shaded night light, and anxious to bear some intelligence to the watchers downstairs. Her step, light as it was, awoke Gladys. She started up, and looking on her mistress, clasped her hands, and fervently thanked God.

'She is sleeping as calmly as a child,' she said. 'I am sure the worst is past.'

Mrs Jonathan went out to tell the good news, and to beg the brothers to go to bed, which they did, after some demur. Gladys and Rowland watched on for about an hour longer, when Mrs Prothero opened her eyes and fixed them upon Rowland. She smiled as if she knew him, and when he bent over her and kissed her, murmured some faint words which he could not understand.

Gladys gave her some jelly which she swallowed, and soon afterwards she slept again.

'The crisis is over, she will recover, I hope, Mr Rowland,' said Gladys. 'You can go to bed, sir—you had better. The mistress will want you to-morrow, and you can be of no use to-night.'

Rowland felt the force of this, and again kissing his mother's forehead, and shaking Gladys by the hand, he went downstairs to Owen, who he found asleep on the sofa in the parlour. Supper was awaiting him, and Owen and he were soon seated over the fire, discussing their mother's illness and Netta's conduct.

They had not met for three or four years, and there was much to say. Few brothers loved one another more tenderly than they did, despite the dissimilarity of habits, tastes, and occupations, and when they were together, all the secrets of their hearts were usually unfolded. Although Owen's wild roving nature had caused Rowland much anxiety, still he had perfect confidence in his honest, open character. Owing to early education Owen was not deficient in general acquirements. He knew a little Latin and Greek, and could read, write, and cypher well. Added to this, his knowledge of foreign lands was great, and of men and manners greater. Under a careless exterior, he had a considerable portion of talent and information, and Rowland was delighted to find in his sea-faring, roystering brother, a much more cultivated and sensible mind than he had expected. Rowland was beginning to be conscious of wishing to see all his family superior to what they were. Placed by his own profession amongst gentle-folks, and feeling in himself all the refinement of the class so called, he was often annoyed and pained to be differently situated from those who were nearest and dearest to him. He knew that in London he was received as an equal by men and women of rank and position, as well as by those of talent and learning; whereas, in the country, even Miss Gwynne, at whose house he visited, considered it a condescension to speak to him, whilst she looked upon those who belonged to him as people of another sphere. In spite of all his prayers for humility, and his striving after pure Christianity, Rowland was, and knew that he was a proud man, and all the prouder because his original station was beneath his present one. He felt that he must be humbled before he could be the pastor and disciple of One whose whole life was a lesson of humility. But the world knew nothing of this. He walked before it, and through it as a bright example of a young clergyman devoted to his work. Neither was he less devoted to his mother, dutiful to his father, or loving to his brother, because they were good, honest, plain farmers, and he a clergyman; or which was, perhaps, more to the point, because Miss Gwynne could not, or would not separate him from his family.

When he and his brother and sister were children, they were constantly at the vicarage with their uncle and aunt, and Miss Gwynne was their playmate there, and had not known their inferiority. Now that he really was a man of education and a gentleman, in spite of all her kindness to his mother, she knew it full well. Why did he never consider what any one else in his own neighbourhood thought of him or his family? It was only Miss Gwynne—always Miss Gwynne.

Early the following morning that young lady came to inquire for Mrs Prothero, accompanied by Miss Hall. It was Rowland who gave them the joyful intelligence that his mother had had a good night, and was much more quiet. The real pleasure that shone from Miss Gwynne's intelligent and intelligible eyes, showed Rowland how fond she was of his mother.

'And now,' she said, 'Miss Hall and I are come, resolutely bent on remaining with your mother, whilst your aunt and Gladys go to bed. We are quite determined, and you know I always have my way.'

Rowland bowed, smiled, and called his aunt, who, after some hesitation consented, and went upstairs to request Gladys to do the same, but Gladys was inexorable until Mr Prothero came in, and in his most decided manner insisted on her taking some rest. Mrs Prothero also murmured a 'Go, Gladys fach!' and she kissed the dear cheek and went at once.

Mr Prothero took her place. He was alone with his wife, and the rough, loud man became gentle as one of his own lambs, as he bent over her and thanked God that she was better. A big tear fell from his eyes on her face, and he made an inward vow, that if her life were spared, he would never again say a cross word to her as long as he lived.

She felt the tear, heard the kind words, and seemed to understand the vow, for she looked at him tenderly, and said in her low, weak voice, 'God bless you, David!'

From that moment he went out to his work with a lightened heart; the labourers read the good news that their mistress was better in his face, and heard it in his voice. Even Netta's disobedience was forgotten, if not forgiven, in the joy of feeling that the partner of more than half his life was likely to recover. And by degrees she did recover. That is to say, before Rowland was obliged again to leave her, she was able to go down into the parlour and sit at her work, 'quite like a lady,' as she expressed it. And even out of the evil of such an illness good had sprung. It had aroused all the sympathy and kind feeling of relatives, friends, and neighbours; but especially had it been beneficial in bringing out the womanly kindness that lay hid under the stiffness of pride in Mrs Jonathan Prothero, and in opening the hearts of the sisters-in-law towards each other. Mrs Jonathan forgot her cousin, Sir Philip Payne Perry, and helped to nurse, and learned to love her humbler connection, whilst the ever-ready tenderness of the simple farmer's wife, sprung up to respond to it like a stream leaping in the sunlight. Gladys, too, reaped the reward of her devotion, in the increased kindness of Mr Prothero, who began to forget the Irish beggar in the gentle girl whose care, under God, had saved his wife's life; and so, as is usually the case, affliction had not come from the ground, but had fallen like a softening dew upon the irritated feelings of the afflicted, and bound heart still nearer to heart.

Perhaps in the younger and more impetuous natures it had done almost too much. Thoughtless of consequences, they had all worked to save a life, valuable to so many. Rowland, Owen, Miss Gwynne, Miss Hall, Gladys, had been thrown together at a time when the formalities of the world and the distinctions of rank are forgotten, and the tear of sympathy, the word of friendly comfort, or the pressure of the hand of kindly feeling are given and taken, without a thought of giver or receiver. But they are remembered, and dwelt upon in after years as passages in life's history never to be obliterated—never to be forgotten.

THE HEIRESS.

Glanyravon Park lay, as we have said, in the parish of which Mr Jonathan Prothero was vicar, but as the parish and park were large, the house was three or four miles from the church; and it was on account of this distance of Glanyravon and its dependencies from church and school, that Miss Gwynne had induced her father to build the school-house, of which mention has been already made, since there was a large school in the village for such children as were within its reach. She would have had him build a small church also, and endow it, to remove all excuse, as she said, from the chapel-goers; but this was an undertaking too mighty for him. However, the school flourished wonderfully, both on week days and Sundays, and Miss Gwynne always filled every corner of an omnibus in which the servants went to church with such of the children as could not walk so far. Miss Hall was an admirable assistant to the school-mistress during the week; and Gladys, with Mrs Prothero's permission, undertook the Sunday duty for the mistress, in order that she might have a holiday on that day. Miss Gwynne also attended, but she was too impatient and imperious to be a good teacher, much as she wished to be one.

Miss Gwynne had great ideas of doing good; grand schemes that she tried to carry out, but in which she often failed. Nevertheless, she did a great deal of good in her own peculiar way.

She had been reading of the 'harvest homes' that they were endeavouring to revive in England, and had induced her father to have one in the park. Happily, the day fixed for this general rejoicing was during Mrs Prothero's convalescence, and before Rowland's return to London, so that most of the members of the Prothero family could be present. They also yielded to Miss Gwynne's ready assistance in such preparations as she made, and were the instruments in surprising her and her father by some tasteful decorations in their honour, unknown to them. Owen and Gladys worked very hard at floral and evergreen mottoes for the tent, whilst Rowland gave his advice as he sat with his mother, and tried to amuse her during the tedium of her recovery.

A few hours before the general gathering, a messenger arrived at the Park in great haste, bearing a note to Miss Gwynne, containing the information that the vicar had sprained his ankle just as he was going to set out for Glanyravon, and was unable to move. There was another note for Rowland, which was to be carried on to the farm, requesting him to supply his uncle's place.

Miss Gwynne was greatly annoyed; wished that the vicar would not go wandering about after old stones, as she was sure he had done; knew that Rowland would never be able to manage and was very sorry she had attempted the treat at all.

Whilst she was still grumbling, and Miss Hall laughing and consoling, Rowland arrived. This was his first visit to the Park since he had been in the country, and Mr Gwynne was delighted to see him. He perceived at once that Miss Gwynne's equanimity was disturbed; and said that he was very sorry to come as a substitute for his uncle, but that he would do his best. His manner was so quiet and composed, and he seemed so little alarmed by the honours thrust upon him, that Miss Gwynne gradually became reassured.

In less than half-an-hour she told Miss Hall that he was worth a hundred of the vicar, and that after all the sprained ankle was rather a fortunate accident.

At about two o'clock the guests began to assemble at the school-house, over the door of which was the motto in dahlias on a ground of evergreens, 'Welcome for all,' which had been arranged by Miss Hall. The school-room was very tastefully decorated by the mistress, Gladys, and the children; and the motto, 'Long Live Miss Gwynne,' was very apparent in scarlet letters amongst a crown of laurels.

All the children and their teachers were assembled here, and a great many of their relations, also most of the farmers and their families. In addition, there were Mr and Miss Gwynne, Miss Hall, Lady Mary and Miss Nugent, Colonel Vaughan, who was staying at the Park, Sir Hugh Pryse, Mrs Jonathan Prothero, who left her husband at his particular request, and Rowland. No one out of the precincts of the Park had been invited, and as it was, there was a goodly number.

As there was no church near enough for them to go to, Rowland read the evening service in the school-room; after this he gave out one of the hymns for harvest, and led the youthful band in singing it. His fine clear voice seemed to give the children courage, especially when a beautiful full treble joined, to which they were evidently accustomed. It was impossible not to try to discover from whom those sweet notes proceeded, and one by one everybody looked at Gladys, who had a magnificent voice; she, however, was unconscious of observation, for her eyes were fixed on her hymn-book that she was sharing with a small child.

It must be acknowledged that she not unfrequently distracted the attention of many a young man from his hymn-book on Sunday, when at church; and on the present occasion, what with the face and the voice, more than one pair of eyes were fixed on her. Owen, I am sorry to say, looked more attentively at her than at his book; and, as to Colonel Vaughan, he never took his eyes off her face, and was heard to whisper the question of 'Who is that girl?' to Lady Mary Nugent.

When the hymn was sung, Rowland stood behind the high desk of the mistress, and gave a short lecture on the words, 'Thou crownest the year with thy goodness.' Rowland was not ungifted with the talent for extempore preaching, common to so many of his countrymen, and therewith possessed, in general, much self-possession; on the present occasion, it must be confessed that he felt unusually nervous, still he commanded himself and his feelings, and by degrees, forgetting them and his hearers, in his subject, warmed into a natural flow of eloquence that somewhat astonished his congregation, and entirely gained their attention.

Beneath a quiet exterior Rowland hid a romantic and poetic mind, which few, if any of his friends knew anything about; for he had never shown his poetry to them, and never attempted to publish it. But it sometimes appeared, in spite of his efforts to repress it, in his sermons; and now it made a desperate effort to burst forth, and conquered.

There was so much to excite the enthusiasm of a young preacher in that harvest-home gathering—in the mows of golden corn heaped up against the future—in the splendid autumn weather they were then enjoying—in the bright sunshine and many-hued leaves of the changing trees—and the goodness of God crowning the whole!

I am not going through his sermon, for I should only mar what his feelings made powerful. Suffice it to say that some of his friends had tears in their eyes as he preached; others, according to the custom of their country, uttered occasional exclamations of approval as he went on, and some were glad to own him as their near and dear relation.

Perhaps the proudest moment of the farmer's life was when Mr Gwynne went up to him after that short discourse, and shook him by the hand, with the words—emphatic words for him—

'Well, Prothero, I congratulate you upon your son. You have reason to be proud of him. He managed his sermon well at a short notice, clear, poetical, etc., and all that sort of thing.'

The abrupt termination to the speech was occasioned by the approach of Lady Mary Nugent, who also congratulated Mr Prothero.

'Thank you, sir; thank your ladyship; glad you approve,' was all the proud father could say, with the tears in his eyes all the while.

As to Rowland, he was undergoing an ovation of hand-shakings and praises from everybody present, which he was fain to put an end to, by beginning to organise the procession to the tent. One simple sentence, however, rang in his ears for the remainder of that day.

'Thank you, Mr Rowland, for your sermon. I hope you have done us all good,' said Miss Gwynne.

She began to think more highly of him than she had ever thought before, and owned to Miss Hall that he had words at command, and that at a short notice.

The procession was very pretty. The school-children walked two and two, and looked like so many large scarlet poppies, as they wended their way through the avenue. Miss Gwynne gave them all their outer garments, and it was her picturesque and pleasing fancy to keep to the national costume; so they had high-crowned black beaver hats, scarlet cloaks with hoods, striped linsey frocks, and woollen aprons. They carried a due amount of little flags with appropriate mottoes, and some few of the Glanyravon musicians formed a band for the occasion, and played cheerily, 'The March of the Men of Harlech.'

Mr Prothero and his son Owen headed the tenantry, and carried between them a magnificent banner, fashioned at the farm, bearing as motto, 'Prosperity to Glanyravon.' Others followed with appropriate Welsh mottoes. And one was conspicuous as containing the sentiment, 'Long live our Vicar and his Lady.'

A large tent was erected in front of the house, ornamented with flowers, wreaths of evergreens, devices, and mottoes. The most conspicuous of these was in Welsh, and above Mr Gwynne's seat at the head of the long table. It was composed of wheat-ears and oak-leaves, and contained the words, 'May God bless Gwynne of Glanyravon and his daughter.' Mr Gwynne felt almost uncomfortable in seating himself beneath such a sentence, but having consented for the first time in his life, and, he earnestly hoped, for the last, to become a hero, he knew he must go through with it. Accordingly, with Colonel Vaughan on his left, and Lady Mary Nugent on his right hand he prepared to do the honours of a most substantial feast to his tenantry, their wives and children. When every one was seated Rowland said grace, and they began the feast con amore. They were as merry and happy a party as could be assembled on a fine autumn day. Every one was in good humour, and thoroughly enjoyed the treat. As soon as they had feasted enough, they proceeded to give toasts, which were enthusiastically drunk in good Welsh ale.

Mr Gwynne proposed the health of the Queen and royal family. Sir Hugh proposed Mr Gwynne and his daughter, the kind and liberal donors of the feast, in a hearty speech, which all understood. Mr Gwynne did his best to return thanks, but found that he could not get much beyond,—'I feel most grateful for the honour you have done me, but—my feelings—been—and—and—all that sort of thing,' at which point the cheers grew so deafening that he sat down quite overwhelmed, and wished himself in his library.

'So very exciting, so complimentary, so touching,' whispered Lady Mary Nugent to Mr Gwynne.

Rowland was again called upon to exert his eloquence in responding for the Church, which he did in a short, apt speech, duly applauded.

He, in return, proposed the army, coupled with Colonel Vaughan, who—and, he said, he knew he was expressing the thoughts of all present—was heartily welcomed home, and earnestly entreated to remain in his native country.

Colonel Vaughan delighted every one by a most eloquent response. 'Such a grand gentleman, but so humble,' was the general opinion of him. As for the ladies, they were all in love with him. Lady Mary Nugent, Freda, Miss Nugent—they had never seen so charming a man. And he was so universally gallant that he might have been in love with them all in return. He gave the 'Welsh Yeomanry,' for whom Mr Prothero returned thanks, and right well he did it; giving the colonel to understand in something more than a hint, that if he wished the farmers and farming to improve, he, and other absent landlords, must come and live on their property as Mr Gwynne did, and then there would be more wealth and prosperity, and more 'harvest homes.'

And so, with various other toasts, including the vicar and his lady, for whom Owen had to return thanks, the afternoon wore on. The children were playing at games in the Park, and by degrees the elders joined them.

Here Gladys was foremost. It was wonderful to see how she had gained the affections of the young. One and all were round her, and when the gentlemen and ladies came to look on, and join in the revels, the first thing that attracted them was the flushed face and graceful figure of this really beautiful girl, as she led the boisterous youngsters in a game of 'French and English.'

In a moment Colonel Vaughan was in the ring heading the boys; but Gladys immediately retired, abashed, as he stood opposite to her, as captain on the French side. But Owen came to the rescue, and the gallant officer and equally gallant sailor headed the ranks, as commanders of the bands of French and English. They had a hard fight on both sides, but at last the English conquered, and Owen and his party won the day amidst great cheering.

Sir Hugh and Rowland joined in the succeeding games; and sixpences, sweetmeats, apples, and every available prize was given to the boys and girls for racing, jumping, singing, and the like, until the shades of evening fell over the scene.

Lady Mary Nugent and her daughter were the first to wish good-night; as they were to walk home, Colonel Vaughan proposed accompanying them.

'You will return at once?' asked Freda, rather peremptorily, for she disliked that the Nugents should carry off the all-fascinating colonel.

He bowed and said 'yes,' and Rowland, who was near, saw Freda's cheek flush as he looked at her.

It chanced that Rowland and Miss Gwynne were left together at a distance from the revel. They stood awhile, looking on, and talking over the day. Rowland said it had been most successful. Indeed he felt that all had been pleased; none more than himself, for had not everyone congratulated him, and above all, had not Miss Gwynne been even kinder and more friendly, than when by his mother's bed side she had seemed to him as a sister?

'If it has been successful, Mr Rowland, it is in a great measure due to you,' said Miss Gwynne, looking up into his face with a smile of real satisfaction. 'I should never have managed the children so well, and I must say, much as I like your uncle, I don't think he would have managed the services so well as you have done.'

Reader! were you ever praised by a very handsome woman, whom you have loved all your life, when standing with her alone under a wide-spreading oak, in a noble park, with mountains bathed in the red and yellow of the sunset before you, and a broad harvest-moon rising above your heads? If so, you will not wonder at the end of this chapter.

Rowland suddenly fixed his fine, dark eyes upon Freda's face, and looked into it, as if he would read her soul. For a moment she was abashed at the gaze, and coloured deeply, whilst her eye-lids drooped over the eyes he sought. Was there ever a woman who was not flattered and excited by such a look?

'Miss Gwynne,' at last said Rowland tremulously, 'if in any way I can have served and pleased you I am happy. For this, in part, I have laboured, and still would labour. You do not, you cannot know how I have loved you all my life.'

Poor Rowland almost whispered these few words, and as he did so, wished he could recall them, but now the deed was done, and she knew the secret of his childhood, boyhood, and manhood. He said no more, but stood looking down upon her with his heart beating as it had never beaten before.

Higher and higher rose the colour on her cheek. What were the feelings that deepened it so? Alas! poor Rowland! Pride, only pride. For a moment she stood as if hesitating what to say, then, suddenly drawing herself up to her full height, she looked haughtily at him, and said words that he never forgot to his dying day.

'Mr Rowland Prothero, have you quite forgotten who I am, and who you are?'

With these words she made a stately bow, and turned towards the house. Proudly and hastily she walked up the avenue; once she had turned round, and seeing Rowland standing exactly where she had left him, hurried on until she found herself in her own room, indulging in a very decided flood of indignant tears.

THE BROTHERS.

During this short conversation between Rowland and Miss Gwynne, Gladys was still playing with the children at no great distance from them. With all a woman's penetration, she had guessed Rowland's secret during his mother's illness, and had perceived no symptoms of attachment on the part of Miss Gwynne; and now, with all a woman's pity, she was watching him from afar. She had seen them standing together, had marked the hasty bow and retreat of the lady, and the immoveable attitude of the gentleman; she saw that he continued to stand where Miss Gwynne had left him, as if he were a statue; she guessed something must have passed between them.

As twilight was fairly come on, she told the schoolmistress that she must go home, and begged her to see that the children dispersed when she thought best. Owen, who was in the midst of a game of cricket with the boys, was as well aware of all Gladys's movements as if he had been by her side. He saw that she was shaking hands with the mistress, and that the children were imploring her to stay a little longer. He went to her and asked her to remain until he had finished his game, in order that he might see her home.

She thanked him, but said, rather abruptly for her, that she must go at once, and, heedless of what he or others might think, went hastily across the park to Rowland.

'That's the way the wind blows, is it?' said Owen to himself, whilst a frown gathered on his open forehead.

Rowland was unconscious of the approach of Gladys, and was startled from his trance by the words,—

'Mr Rowland, sir, I think the mistress will be expecting you home.'

He looked at her half unconsciously for a moment, and then rousing himself, said,—

'Oh! Gladys, is it you? Yes, I will go directly. Where? Home? Of course it is time. I will walk with you.'

These were the only words spoken between the pair. Rapidly he strode down the avenue, inwardly resolving never to enter it again; as rapidly along the road that led to the farm, until he reached the house, with Gladys breathless by his side.

'I am afraid I have walked too quickly, Gladys, I am very sorry. I was anxious to get home, I do not feel very well.'

With these words he hurried through the passage, and was going to his room, when his father met him and called him into the parlour. He felt so bewildered that he scarcely knew what his mother said, when she told him how proud and happy he had made her by his conduct that day.

'All, my dear son, church-people and dissenters were pleased with your sermon, and the way you managed everything. Your aunt repeated it word for word to me, and it was just what I like. This is the first comfort I have felt since—'

Mrs Prothero pressed her son's hand, and her eyes filled with tears.

'Thank you, mother, I am glad,' was all Rowland could say.

'Mind you, Row, my boy, you must write a good sermon for Sunday. You've got a character to lose now,' said Mr Prothero, giving him a slap on the back.

'Yes, father. I will go and write it.'

'Not to-night, Rowland,' said Mrs Prothero, anxiously; 'you look pale and tired. What is the matter?'

'Nothing, mother; but I must think of this sermon, I have only one clear day. We will talk to-morrow. Good-night, dear mother.'

Rowland stooped to kiss his mother, and she felt that his face was very cold, and that his hand trembled.

'You are ill, Rowland?'

'No, only tired. I will come and see you again by-and-by.'

Rowland went to his room and bolted himself in. He threw himself on a chair, covered his face with his hands, and wept like a child. He was seated by a little writing-table near the window, through which the moon looked down pitifully upon him in his great anguish. Yes, great. Perhaps the greatest anguish of a life. His arms on the table, his head on his arms, he thought, in the misery of that moment, that he must die, and he wished to die. The illusion of a life was destroyed, and how? So rudely, so cruelly, so heartlessly broken! He could have borne it if there had been one kind word, only a look of interest or pity; but that pride and haughtiness were like the stabs of a dagger in his heart.

'Womanly weakness! unmanly folly!' you say, some one who has never felt keenly and suddenly the pangs of such a passion unrequited. Perhaps so. But out of our great weakness sometimes grows our strength; out of our bitterest disappointments our sternest resolution. By-and-by such weakness will strengthen; such folly will breed wisdom.

Thus Rowland remained for some time, with unkind and unholy thoughts and feelings rushing through his mind, like the howling winds through the air in a great storm. Afterwards, he prayed humbly to be forgiven those devilish feelings of anger, pride, hatred of life and mistrust of God's goodness that assailed him in that hour of misery. But for the time, they were darting to and fro, and casting out every good thought, and hopeful purpose from his soul, like demons as they were.

But strength came at last, and like one arising out of a horrid dream, Rowland got up from his anguish, and looked out into the night. The moon was too tender and beautiful for his mood at that time; he roughly drew down the blind, took a box of matches from the table, and lighted a candle. Then he paced up and down the room, and suddenly thought of Howel and Netta. He knew not how the transition took place, but he immediately accused himself of having been hard to them. Does any one ever fully sympathise with another, until he has felt as he does? No, we should not judge our weak fellow mortals so harshly, if we knew all their temptations and trials.

Then, again, Miss Gwynne returned to him, with her pride and coldness. How could he love such a woman? he, whose beau ideal of feminine perfection was a creature of gentleness, love, and pity? but he would think of her no more. She, at least, should discover that he was as proud as herself.

Yes, he was proud, he knew it, and now, he would glory in his pride instead of trample it down, as he had been of late trying to do, as an arch tempter; he should be justified in showing pride for her pride.

Again a gentler and better mood came. Was he not vain, ambitious, ridiculous in her eyes, for venturing to speak to her as he had done? Doubtless he had been wrong, but she needed not to spurn him as she had done; she might have told him so as a friend. Friend! she thought him beneath her friendship.

But we will not pursue these musings further; every kind and degree of feeling alternated for nearly two hours, when, as if by some sudden impulse or resolution, Rowland sat down and determined to write his sermon. It should be upon pride, and should touch her as well as himself. He found pleasure in thinking of all the texts in which the word occurs, in looking for them, and considering which was the most biting.

A hasty knock at his door interrupted this study. It was Owen, who insisted upon coming in, and would take no excuse.

Owen, too, had been ruminating upon the nature of woman, and was not in a very good humour; he, however, had been cheerfully talking to his mother of the events of the day, and duly lauding their own particular hero, Rowland.

When he entered, he looked surprised at seeing Rowland with his Bible in his hand; he took a chair, and, turning his seat towards him, sat down astride upon it, leaning his chin upon the back and facing Rowland.

'Now, Rowland, I'm going to ask you a very plain question. There ought to be no secrets between brothers: I've told you all mine, nearly? you must tell me yours. Are you in love?'

Poor Rowland coloured to the temples, but did not answer.

'You won't tell me? There was a time, Rowland, when you and I knew one another's hearts as well as if they were two open books, in which we could read when we like, but I suppose London and fine people—'

'Stop, Owen, do not disgrace yourself or me by going on. Why do you wish to probe me in a wounded place, where every stab is death?'

Owen looked at his brother, and saw the conflict that was going on in his mind in the working of his features.

'Rowland, I only want your confidence; by Jove you shall have mine, even though you are my successful rival; and I love you so well that I would give her up to you, if it cost me—let me see—a voyage to the North Pole.'

'Owen, this is no jesting matter. I have been a fool, I am ashamed of myself, I am trying to conquer my feelings; leave me until I have succeeded, and then—'

'But, Rowland, if she loves you, I don't see why you should try to overcome your feelings. It would not be quite the right match, certainly; but she would make a better parson's wife than a sailor's wife after all; and my father might consent in time, and—'

'Owen, is it kind of you to make a jest of me?' asked Rowland, rising from his chair, and resuming his walk up and down his room. 'If you had ever really loved either of the many girls you have fancied you adored, you would understand me better; but I deserve it all for my presumption—my folly.'

'For that much, Rowland, perhaps I love her a trifle better than you do at this very moment; still I am not selfish enough to come between you, and would rather try absence and the northern latitudes; only just be honest. I'm not quite such a piece of blubber as not to be capable of constancy, though I may have been a rover until now; but when I see a girl walk right away from me, and refuse to wait for me to go home with her, and go straight off to another man, never mind if he was my father, instead of my brother, I don't mean to break my heart about her. Besides, I'm disappointed in her, and that's the truth. I thought she was as modest as the moon; but I never saw the moon walk out of her straight path to go after another planet, and no girl that I have anything to say to, shall go after another man. So you're welcome to her, though I'll say this, that I never saw the woman yet I loved so well, and believe she's as good as gold, as pure as that same moon, but as cold as ice itself; at least, so I've found her, perhaps you've a warmer experience.'

As soon as Owen paused in his rapid speech, Rowland paused in his walk, and putting his hand on Owen's shoulder, said,—

'This is a misapprehension, my dear Owen; you and I are thinking of a different person.'

'I am thinking of Gladys,' said Owen bluntly, 'and repeat that I love you both too well to come between you and happiness.'

'I am sure of that, Owen, you have no selfishness about you; but I do not love Gladys. I never thought of her except as a beautiful and superior girl, thrown by Providence amongst us, and to be treated with kindness and consideration. I only hope my manner to her has never indicated anything else.'

'Do you mean what you say?' said Owen, jumping up from his chair, and cutting a caper, 'then shake hands, and tell me you forgive me for being so hasty.'

They shook hands heartily, and Rowland said,—

'Thank you, Owen, you have done me good; now go away, and I will write my sermon.'

'Not before I know what is the matter with you, and why Gladys went across on purpose to walk home with you.'

After much hesitation, and some pressing on the part of Owen, Rowland told his brother what had passed between him and Miss Gwynne. When he had made a clean breast of it, he felt as if relieved of half his load—especially when Owen assured him that women were all alike, and that when you asked them the first time, they were as proud as Lucifer.

'It is first and last with me, Owen. I have forgotten my position, my profession, my own dignity in giving way to a passion that I had no right to suppose could be returned. I will crush it, and nobody but you shall ever know of its existence. This struggle over, and I shall hope henceforth to have but one Master and to serve Him.'

'Well, I never should have thought you would have fancied Miss Gwynne; not but that she is handsome and clever and very agreeable and kind, too, when she pleases; but so proud, so domineering, and then—'

'Neither should I have supposed Gladys to be your choice, Owen; and I am sorry it should be so. What would my father say? so soon upon Netta, too; and you must confess that her uncertain history, her present condition, the way she came to us, would be utter barriers to anything serious.'

'Bravo, Rowland; now I must put the application to your lecture. I suppose everything is by comparison in this world—the squire and the squire's daughter look down upon the farmer and the farmer's son, and beg to decline the honour of an alliance. The farmer and the farmer's son look down upon the corporal and corporal's daughter, and beg to do the same, especially as she is their servant. Tom, the carpenter, thinks his daughter too good for Joseph the labourer, and Matthew the shoeblack wouldn't let his son marry Sal the crossing-sweeper for all the world. Oh, Rowland!, is this what you have learnt from your profession, and the book before you? Why, I've found a better philosophy on board ship, with no teachers but the moon and stars.'

'Owen, I am ashamed of myself. My pride deserves to be thus pulled down.'

'I don't want to seem unkind, Rowland, but my notion is, that an honest gentleman, such as you, educated, and a clergyman is good enough for any lady; and that a good, religious girl, who has saved my mother's life, is a great deal too good for a ne'er-do-well fellow like me. But I won't fall before I'm pushed, since I'm pretty sure she thinks so too. So, now, cheer up, old boy! and show the heiress what a sermon you can preach; and let her see you don't care a fig for her; and then, by jingo, she'll be over head and ears in love with you, and propose herself next leap-year.'

Rowland laughed, in spite of himself, at this notion.

'I will go and wish my mother good night,' he said, 'and then set to work.'

The brothers went together to their mother, who was in bed, and together received her 'God bless you, my children!' Then they separated for the night, and Rowland returned to his room a wiser, if still a sadder, man, than when Owen visited it. Owen's plain common sense had often got the better of Rowland's romance; and although he could not approve his roving and seemingly useless life, he always acknowledged that he gathered some wisdom by his experience.

Again Rowland sat down, but this time he drew up the blind, and let the moonlight in upon his chamber like a silver flood. He took himself to task for his pride, ambition, and conceit, in a way that did him good, doubtless, but was not palatable; still he made many excuses for himself, and none for Miss Gwynne. He was not to recover the effects of that disappointment in a few hours! Days and even years were necessary for that. But he asked for strength where it is never asked in vain, and then resolutely wrote a sermon on the words, 'Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.'

He wrote as he felt, and under the influence of those strong, half-curbed feelings, wrote so easily, that he was astonished to find how quickly he composed, and how soon a sufficient number of sheets were written, to occupy his customary half-hour when preached. He did not read them over, but promised to do so on the morrow, which was Saturday. He was already far into the small hours, and knew that he ought to be in bed.

When he was there he could not sleep. That love of his was too deeply-rooted to be torn up by a few proud words that haunted him all the night, and to which he was constantly adding 'Yes, you are the heiress of Glanyravon, and I am only a farmer's son and a poor curate.'