Gladys, the Reaper

THE GOVERNESS.

'Only a curate!' exclaimed Miss Gwynne, as she and Miss Hall were discussing Rowland's presumption the following morning.

'Still, a gentleman,' replied Miss Hall quietly.

'The son of one of my father's tenants; a farmer's son!'

'Still, a gentleman!'

'The ninety-ninth attempt on Glanyravon, and, happily, an unsuccessful one.'

'Perhaps the first sincere attempt to gain the heiress's heart, without any thought of her park and its broad acres.'

'I declare, Serena, vous m'impatientez. I verily believe you are in his interest and confidence, and trying to plead his cause.'

This was said with great excitement; the answer, however, was calm.

'Scarcely possible, if probable, because I was never alone with him in my life, and have rarely seen him except in your presence.'

'Then, why do you take up his defence? You would not have me marry him, would you?'

'Certainly not, for many reasons. In the first place, you do not love him; in the second, your father would not approve of such a match; in the third, you are not suited to him.'

'I understand. Not good enough. But why do you defend him? Do you think it was right of him to say what he did to me?'

'Well, perhaps not. But I think he has been nursing these feelings for you so long, that he began to forget whether they were right or wrong, sensible or foolish; and last night, carried away by the excitement of the day and his own success, and finding himself alone with you—you, probably, more friendly than usual—he forgot his customary prudence, and overstepped the bounds of conventionality.'

'Very well said, Nita. Then it was wrong of me to be friendly, and right of him to make a dunce of himself.'

'Perhaps if you had ever felt as he does, Freda, you might make some excuse for him.'

'I am sure you must have been in love a hundred times, you are so sentimental, and would like to see him run away with me.'

'Quite wrong again.'

'Then what would you like, for I am sure you don't approve of my conduct?'

'Simply, that you should have treated a clergyman and a gentleman as such, and at least felt grateful that a good and honest heart was offered to you, even though you would not accept it.'

'But I don't believe in the heart, you see, Serena. There is not a more mercenary race under the sun than the clergy. They all marry for money. I can mention quite a dozen; his own uncle at the head of them. Now, you cannot suppose that he married Mrs Jonathan Prothero for anything but her fortune and her family.'

'I think he is too simple-minded a man to have considered either the one or the other.'

'Then why didn't he marry some simple-minded girl, his equal? No, you are quite out of your depth now, Serena. Depend upon it, that Rowland Prothero will soon find some English lady just as rich as I am to be—always provided that Lady Mary Nugent doesn't carry off papa, and get him to leave her the property. These men don't seem to know that it is not entailed; and that, after all, I may be cut off with a shilling. I think I may venture to affirm that were such the case, there is not one of my ninety-nine adorers who would have me, except, perhaps poor Sir Hugh.'

'Perhaps, Freda, I may have been imprudent, situated as I am here, in even saying what I have in favour of Rowland Prothero. The fact is, that not only do I particularly like what I know of him, but there is a little passage in my early history that makes me have a great pity for young men who venture to fall in love with young ladies who consider themselves their superiors.'

'If you will tell me your story, Nita, I will forgive you all the rest, and finish this sketch of Abertewey for Colonel Vaughan, meanwhile.'

Freda drew well in water-colours, and had before her, as she sat in the embrasure of one of the windows of that charming morning-room, a half-finished sketch of Colonel Vaughan's place, which he had begged her to take for him. Hitherto it had been untouched; now she began to work at it with pretended vigour, whilst Miss Hall took up the little frock she was making for a poor child, which had been laid down during the discussion, and also made believe to stitch and sew industriously.

But there was a flush on her cheek, and a tremor in her voice, as she began to tell Freda the little passage in her life to which she had alluded. Freda was conscious of this, and accordingly devoted herself more energetically to her drawing.

'It was when I was just eighteen, Freda, and during my beaux jours, before my father had lost his fortune, or been obliged to retire from the army on half-pay on account of that dreadful paralytic stroke—before my sister's imprudent marriage, and consequent emigration to Australia—before my dear mother's death. We were a happy and gay family, and I had then more pride and higher spirits than you would probably give me credit for now.

'I was visiting a friend who had married the head-master of one of our principal grammar schools. Amongst his tutors there was a young man of whom he was very fond, and who used to be a good deal with his family after the duties of the day were over. It is just possible that he was a countryman of yours, for his name was Jones.'

'Oh, Serena! you don't mean to say that you fell in love with a Jones in England, and then came into Wales to be in the midst of that very ancient and numerous family.'

'I have not come to the love part yet, Freda. He was a very quiet and unobtrusive person, but, my friends said, very amiable and sufficiently clever. I know that I used to take an unkind delight in teasing him, and that he was rather clever in repartee, and never spared me in return. I liked him as an amusing companion, and had no objection to his getting me books or flowers, or whatever lay within his reach that might be agreeable to me. Moreover, I pitied him, because I was told that both his parents were dead, and that he was working hard to pay for his own course at college, whither he intended to go as soon as he could get the means.

'As my father was with his regiment abroad at this time, and my mother and sister were making a round of visits amongst our Scotch friends, I stayed a long time with the Merryweathers. They were very pleasant people, and had an agreeable circle of acquaintance.

'But that has nothing to do with my story. The evening before I left them to return home, my friend, Mr Jones, managed to be alone with me; how, I never found out, for he ought to have been with the boys—and committed a similar misdemeanour to that of poor Rowland Prothero. He had unfortunately lost his heart to me—so he said, and was constrained to tell me so. Would I think of him, if, in the course of time, he could enter the church and marry me?

'Now I had the world before me, a happy home, a prospect of a certain independence, and, I suppose, a sufficient share of personal attractions. I had never considered whether I could like this young man or not; but I had well considered that when I married, I must have talent, position, personal beauty, and a hundred other visionary attributes in my husband. I was of a most imaginative, and at the same time, ambitious temperament; and on the one hand, thought a great poet or warrior would fall to my lot, and on the other, that a prince of the blood royal was not too good for me.

'Your pride, my dear Freda, is too matter-of-fact, as is your general character, thoroughly to understand me. At that time I was touched and flattered by the devotion of this young man, and felt, that had he been differently placed, and had he more of the attributes either of station or romance about him, I might have taken him under my august consideration; but as I had never even looked upon him in the light of a lover, or supposed it possible that he could be one, I at once, and decidedly refused him.

'I shall never forget the pained and melancholy expression of his features when I did so, or the few words he uttered. He said that he had not ventured to hope for a different answer, though he had dared to speak, and that his one slight prospect of happiness had vanished. He had now nothing but a life of labour before him, without a gleam of hope to cheer his way, but that he should think of me always, and of the happy hours we had passed together. I felt so sorry for him that I could really say nothing, either to cheer or discourage him. He simply asked me to allow him to remain my friend, and to forgive his presumption; and so we shook hands and parted. He did not join the family that evening, and the next day I left the Merryweathers.

'I do not know how it was, but when I returned home, I thought more of this young man than of any one else. Although my sister and myself were surrounded by men of a very different, and I may say, superior class, still he haunted me very much, for a time at least.

'Then came my sister's marriage, which proved, as you know, unfortunate in a pecuniary point of view, and her and her husband's emigration to Australia in search of fortune. Then followed our own ruin, and my father's paralytic seizure. To help my parents and support myself, I came to you as governess. You know, dearest Freda, how happy your dear mother made me as long as she lived, and how ardently I desired to fulfil her dying wish that I should finish your education. Most thankful I am that I was permitted to do so.

'I need not tell you, over and over again, the sad story of my mother's death, and my return home to live with my father, and become a daily instead of a resident governess. All the happiness I have known—at least the greatest—since our troubles, has been in this house.

'But this has nothing to do with Mr Jones. I heard, casually from my friend, Mrs Merryweather, that he had left them and gone to college; what college, she did not say. For some years I had quite enough of painful duty to perform to make me forget the weeks passed in his society, and their termination; or to think of a person of whom I had quite lost sight. About six or seven years ago, however, I heard of him, strange to say, through my sister. I had, of course, told her of his proposal and my refusal.

'She and her husband were among the early settlers at Melbourne, and in the course of time became tolerably prosperous. He, you know, was obliged to leave his regiment for drunkenness, and contrary to the usual course of things, became steadier, though not steady, in Australia. My sister lost two children in one week from fever, and during her great sorrow, was constantly visited by the clergyman of her parish, who turned out to be my early friend, Mr Jones. I do not think he knew she was my sister for some time; but she described his untiring kindness and gentleness as her greatest comfort during her troubles. He was also of great benefit to her husband, by taking advantage of the opportunity offered by the loss of his children, to press upon him the necessity of a reformation in his own course of life, which, I am thankful to say, has been gradually effected. They became very intimate, and, I suppose by mutually comparing notes concerning Old England, found one another out, so to say. But he seldom spoke of me. If my sister tried to draw him into the subject of his acquaintance with me, he changed it as soon as possible, as if it were disagreeable to him. And no wonder.

'However, my sister looks upon this man as her greatest benefactor—him, whom I, in my pride and ignorance, considered beneath me in every respect; and when he left Melbourne a year or two ago, she said they had lost their best and dearest earthly friend, and that the children cried when he wished them good-bye, as if they were parting from a father.'

Whilst Miss Hall was telling this simple narrative, Freda was very attentive. As it drew to a close, she rose from her drawing, and kneeling, as she sometimes would do, by Miss Hall's side, put her arm affectionately round her. There was something in the action at that moment which drew tears from Miss Hall's eyes.

'But he is not married, Serena, I know he is not married,' she exclaimed. 'Who knows!'

'My dear child,' said Miss Hall, smiling, and stroking Freda's shining hair, 'I have long given up all thoughts of matrimony. But the recollection of old times always affects me, and your love affects me still more. I have not told you this because I regret not being married to Mr Jones—it was mercifully ordained that I should not marry any one. What would my dear father have done if I had? but simply to show you how the very people we think the least of frequently become our best friends; the "weak things of the earth confounding those that are mighty," in scripture phrase.'

'Oh, Serena! do you hear?' interrupted Freda, 'there is Miss Nugent in the hall. Of all the bores! we never can be free from those people. Yes it is; I hear her lithp;' and Miss Nugent was announced.

She had walked over, she said, to ask how they all were after the delightful Harvest Home, and to bring an invitation from her mamma to dinner the following Tuesday.

'I do hope you will come, Freda, and you, Mith Hall, and bring that charming Colonel Vaughan with you. He ith tho nithe. Don't you think tho.'

'Very,' said Freda, drily.

'But, do you know, I don't admire him half ath much ath Mr Rowland Prothero. Mamma thaith he ith tho gentlemanlike and that the meanth to athk him Tuethday.'

'Really!' again said Freda, not daring to look at Miss Hall.

'We are going to Llanfach to-morrow to hear him preach. Hith thermon wath beautiful in the school-room. Don't you think he ith like the picture at the beginning of "Evangeline." Dear me, who wath he, Freda?'

'Longfellow, you mean, I suppose.'

'Of courth. And hith language ith tho poetical. Mamma thaith the thouldn't wonder if he turned out a great author by-and-by. Thould you, Mith Hall?'

'It takes so much to make a great author, dear; but it is just possible.'

'But not probable,' whispered Freda.

'Oh, Freda! don't you like him? I am thure you ought; he managed everything tho nithely for you yethterday. Mamma thaith—Ah! there is Colonel Vaughan coming up the drive.'

Miss Hall looked across at Freda, and remarked that she began to draw most industriously, and did not glance out of the window as Miss Nugent did.

'Mamma thaith,' began that young lady, 'that the colonel ith the motht accomplithed and agreeable man in Waleth.'

'How can she tell that?' asked Freda, with feigned surprise. 'There are so many clever men in Wales. I assure you we are a talented race.'

'I am thure of that, Freda; but I think the Englith are more thinthere; mamma thaith tho.'

'Ah, she must be a good judge,' said Freda, somewhat ironically.

'Yeth; mamma ath theen a great deal of the world,' replied the unsuspecting Miss Nugent.

Here Colonel Vaughan made his appearance, and that young lady gave him her mamma's invitation, which he said he should be delighted to accept, if his friends did; so Freda said her papa was out, but she would send Lady Mary Nugent an answer when he came in.

'Ah! this is a sketch, Freda,' said Colonel Vaughan, who had somehow returned to the old familiarity of earlier days. 'How can I thank you sufficiently? who could think that the child I left twelve years ago would be such a good artist when I returned? But that was the cleverest bit of life-like drawing I ever saw, that sketch of your old pony. By the way, do you know who this is?'

The colonel opened a sketch-book that he had in his hand, and put it into Freda's.

'Why, this is Gladys, Mrs Prothero's Gladys. How could you prevail on her to stand for her picture? Look, Serena, how well Colonel Vaughan has hit off her expression and general effect in those few touches!'

'I went to see Prothero, who used to be a good friend of mine in old times, and whilst I was waiting for him and looking out of the window, I saw this Gladys in the garden, and made the attempt you are pleased to praise. Certainly she is about the loveliest specimen of country beauty I ever saw in my life.'

'Do you admire her, Colonel Vaughan? I think the ith tho very pale and thupid.'

'I never contradict a young lady, and suppose you must be right; but in the present company, one cannot think of other belles. It would be a case of looking for stars in the presence of the sun.'

Colonel Vaughan glanced from one to the other of the ladies. Freda bent more closely over her sketch, but coloured perceptibly. Miss Nugent simpered and looked very handsome withal.

Miss Hall was struck with her beauty as she then appeared; a perfect profile, perfect complexion, perfect features, beneath a most becoming straw hat and feathers. Such a colour and complexion, but no expression, not even the sarcastic turn of the lip of the mother.

'Perfectly child-like, amiable, and silly,' thought Miss Hall, 'and yet Colonel Vaughan admires that statue more than the noble face and grand expression of my Freda.'

THE PREACHER.

As Mr Jonathan Prothero's sprain proved to be a very bad one, Rowland was obliged to undertake his weekly as well as his Sunday duty, and being summoned to the vicarage early on Saturday morning for a wedding, and finding other clerical duty in the afternoon, he had no time to revise his sermon until the morning on which he was to preach it. His mind was still in a state of so much excitement, that he found, on reading it over, that he had no power to amend what he had written hastily, but feeling that it was what he earnestly desired to act up to himself, and to bring his own mind down to, he hoped the words would not be without effect on his hearers. If Miss Gwynne took them as intended personally to touch her, why, he could not help it, and besides, she probably would be at Llanfawr church, to avoid seeing him.

But this was not the case. Gwynnes, Nugents, Protheros, and many others of Rowland's neighbours, helped to fill the little church that Sunday, all anxious to hear him preach; this made him feel nervous in spite of himself. In vain he reasoned with himself, prayed to forget himself, and those present—he could not get rid of those haunting words of Miss Gwynne's, or of the consciousness that she was listening to him. However, he read the service clearly and impressively, in the manly tone, and simply religious manner of one who knows that he is leading the prayers and praises of a congregation who cannot express their wants too humbly and naturally, to One who knows what they desire, even before they ask. No one in that church prayed more earnestly to be delivered from 'all blindness of heart, from pride, vain-glory and hypocrisy; from envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness,' than he did. And as he proceeded with the litany, his mind grew calmer, and he gradually received strength to overcome the great inward struggle that he was suffering from.

Before reading the thanksgiving, he gave out in a tremulous voice, that a 'member of that congregation was desirous of returning thanks to Almighty God for her recovery from dangerous, illness.' When he thanked God for all His mercies to all men, 'particularly to her who desires now to offer up her praises and thanksgivings for late mercies vouchsafed unto her,' every one felt that he was returning thanks for his own mother's recovery, and joined him in so doing. His father was seen to put his handkerchief to his eyes, as he lifted up his heart in praise.

His earnest manner evidently impressed his congregation, who were usually accustomed to the somewhat monotonous reading of his uncle, and to his rather learned discourses.

It is generally the case, that words spoken from the overflowings of the speaker's own heart and feelings, make the greatest impression on the hearts and feelings of his hearers; so it was now. When Rowland, in simple and forcible language, told his listeners that the first words of our Lord's Sermon on the Mount were to bless the poor in spirit, and to promise them the kingdom of heaven; and went on to contrast such poverty of spirit with the pride and vain glory inherent in man, and to call up the various scriptural examples and texts that bore upon the subject of humility; he gained the attention of all. Then he enlarged more particularly on the necessity of curbing and bridling and keeping down the spirit, until it attained that lowliness to which Our Saviour alludes in the very first of the beatitudes; and finally went through that Saviour's life, as the great example for all men, of meekness, gentleness, and humility—the interest in his words increased.

Rowland preached from the heart to the heart, and so his sermon that day was not in vain, albeit not perhaps written in the very best of moods. There was no poetry, no overheated enthusiasm no display of eloquence, but the plain, straightforward announcement to rich and poor alike, that to enter God's kingdom the spirit must become even as that of a little child.

Perhaps this is the least understood, and least palatable of all subjects, and when brought before a congregation, and well discussed for half-an-hour, must make many of its members pause to consider whether, on such terms, 'theirs is the kingdom of heaven.'

Miss Gwynne was one of those who paused so to consider, and acknowledged to herself that she had never looked upon our Lord's Sermon on the Mount, as so practically and so particularly addressed to herself before. She did not for a moment believe that the sermon was intended for her, more than for the rest of the congregation, but she felt, for the first time, that she had been proud and overbearing in her conduct to the preacher, as well as to many others whom she chose to think her inferiors.

She left the church, resolved to make such amends as were in her power, for the hasty and haughty way of her rejection of Rowland, and to strive to be less proud for the future.

When she was without, her father said to her, that he must go into the vicarage to congratulate the vicar on his nephew's preaching, and to ask Rowland to dinner. Miss Gwynne endeavoured to dissuade him from doing so, but Lady Mary Nugent expressed her intention of performing similar civilities; consequently the whole party, Colonel Vaughan and Miss Hall inclusive, walked across the churchyard to the vicarage, which lay just the other side of it.

The vicarage was a snug little cottage, with a rustic porch, adorned with the Virginian creeper, which, together with the massive ivy, also nearly covered the house. Red and cheerful looked the tiny dwelling beneath the autumn sun; and very pretty was the garden which surrounded it, still bright with dahlias, fuchsias, red geraniums, and monthly roses. It was here, years ago, that Rowland, Miss Gwynne, and Netta had often played together; and it was here that Rowland had passed the principal part of his holidays when at home from Rugby or college. It was here that Mrs Jonathan had done her utmost to make a gentleman of him, and had succeeded to her heart's content. Rowland had been very happy with his uncle and aunt, and loved them almost as well as his parents.

In the pretty garden were innumerable wonderful stones heaped into all sorts of masses, which he had helped his uncle to bring from various parts in the neighbourhood, and all of which were curiosities in their way; and there, also, was a fernery which he himself had made, and which contained all the remarkable ferns of a country rich in those beautiful productions of nature. The vicarage and its garden were neatness itself. Mrs Jonathan prided herself on them, and took great pains to prove that there could be, in a Welsh country village, a clergyman's abode something akin to the far-famed dwellings of the English ecclesiastic.

The party from the church quite filled the little drawing-room. Mr Jonathan Prothero was in an easy-chair, with his foot on a cushion, and looking very much like a caged stork.

Every one began by congratulating him on the success of his nephew in the pulpit.

'He must become a popular preacher,' said Lady Mary Nugent.

'I must say I have seldom heard more simple yet forcible language,' said Mr Gwynne.

'He touched us all upon our besetting sin of pride,' said Colonel Vaughan, glancing at Miss Gwynne, who said nothing.

'And thuch a beautiful voice!' remarked Miss Nugent.

Mrs Jonathan looked delighted.

'But where is he all this time, my dear?' asked the vicar.

We must answer the question by informing the reader that, having watched his congregation leave the church, he went into the vestry and sat down there, in order to avoid meeting any of the Gwynne party; when a messenger from his aunt came to inform him that he was wanted at once. He inquired by whom, and on hearing, tried to arm himself for an unavoidable encounter with Miss Gwynne.

When he entered the room she was talking to his uncle, and had her back turned to the door. He was at once greeted by Mr Gwynne and Lady Mary Nugent, so that he did not find it necessary to shake hands with every one, and made a kind of general bow, which he addressed to Miss Hall particularly, and was therefore unconscious of the half-attempt of Freda to rise from her seat as he entered. Miss Hall, alone, saw the flush on her cheek, as she relapsed into her position by Mr Jonathan Prothero and professed to be listening to the cause of his accident. His adventurous search after trinobites in a celebrated quarry, the slipping of a stone, and consequent spraining of his right ankle, sounded into one of her ears, whilst the following conversation, entered the other:—

'I hope you will give us the pleasure of your company on Tuesday,' said Lady Mary Nugent. 'We shall not be a large party.'

'And will come to us on Wednesday,' said Mr Gwynne. 'We must have some more chess. I have never met with a fair opponent since—hem—I beg your pardon, Lady Mary—Ah—yes—or, on Thursday. You see we did not like to ask you whilst your mother was so ill; my daughter thought it would be useless.'

Rowland coloured at the allusion to Freda, but did not even glance at her.

'Thank you, Lady Mary; thank you, Mr Gwynne, very much indeed, but I intend being in London on Tuesday. I have already outstayed my prescribed fortnight.'

'My dear Rowland!' exclaimed his aunt, 'you do not mean this?'

'Yes, aunt; my fellow curate has been fortunate enough to get a living given to him, and is to read himself in next Sunday, and I have promised to take double duty.'

'But one day more or less,' suggested Lady Nugent, who did not imagine it possible that Rowland Prothero could refuse an invitation from her, which was, in her opinion, quite a royal command. She, so exclusive!

'I am very much obliged to your ladyship, but I have promised to be in London on Tuesday; and as my mother is really better, there is no longer any necessity for my staying in the country.'

'Your uncleth foot?' suggested Miss Nugent.

'Two good dinners, and more agreeable company than you will meet with in your East End parish!' said Colonel Vaughan.

'My uncle will easily find help,' said Rowland, turning to Miss Nugent, 'although I am sorry not to be able to give him more; and,' to Colonel Vaughan, with a smile, 'had you ever tried the far East, you would know that there is very good company there, as well as in the West. I should be very glad to introduce you to some, if you would come and see me in town.'

'That I certainly will,' said the colonel, heartily; 'and I shall be able to tell you all about your sister, as I heard yesterday that her husband has finally taken my place, and will be down here as soon as it is put in first-rate order, furnished, etc.'

'You are not likely to leave us yet I hope, Colonel Vaughan?' said Lady Mary Nugent.

'For a time, I must; but having found how pleasant you all are down here, I shall hope to come again frequently, if Miss Gwynne will second her papa's invitation.'

Freda just turned round, bowed, and smiled, and then resolutely resumed her conversation with, or rather act of listening to, the vicar.

'How interested you appear to be,' whispered the colonel, sitting down behind her.

Rowland saw this little bit of by-play, and wished himself in London; whilst Colonel Vaughan joined in the vicar's archæological description of the quarry in which he had met with his accident. Freda heard all that Rowland said more distinctly than what passed close at her side.

She heard her father and Lady Mary's repeated entreaties that he would remain until the end of the week, and the decided, but polite refusal of Rowland. She heard her father prophecy that he would soon have a good living, and Rowland's reply, 'that without interest or any particular talent for what is called "popular preaching," there was little chance of church preferment. 'But,' he added, 'I am well content to be only a curate. There is enough to do in my parish to keep one from morning to night employed, and that in real, active, heart-stirring work, that will not let one flag if one would wish it.'

'I thould like to thee the Eatht End, mamma,' said Miss Nugent. 'People in the Wetht theem to think all the inhabitanths barbarians.'

'It is a pity they don't come and try to civilise us, then,' said Rowland. 'We should be very glad of their help.'

'I will go if mamma will let me,' said Miss Nugent.

Lady Mary smiled somewhat superciliously, and observed that she did not think she would be of much use.

'All who have a desire to do good will make a path of usefulness, Lady Mary, I think,' said Rowland. 'In these days the enlightened must not hide their light under a bushel. We live in stirring, striving times, when good and evil seem at terrible issue.'

'And which will conquer?' broke in Colonel Vaughan suddenly. 'I don't see that all the meetings and tracts have done much, as yet, towards their part in the fight.'

'Good must conquer eventually,' said Rowland, 'and is conquering daily and hourly.'

'In your East End parish?'

'We hope so. If our progress is slow we are not without encouragement even there, in the very thick of the battle, and where the armies of evil are ten to one against good.'

'I know something of fighting, Mr Rowland, and I fear the odds are too great. You may as well give up the conflict.'

'Remember, Colonel Vaughan, that in all the great battles of antiquity, and not a few of modern times—the Swiss for example—those who fought for freedom and right have always found their arms nerved to resist multitudes—hundreds have conquered tens of thousands. So is it with our warfare. We have strength given us that makes the single champion of the cross, powerful against the legion of his adversaries.'

'Very well said, nephew,' broke in the vicar, 'Marathon, Thermopylæ, Platea—'

'I am afraid we are keeping you from your dinner, Mrs Prothero,' interrupted Mr Gwynne, who had a nervous dread of the vicar's antiquities, whether in war or peace. 'Freda, I think we must go.'

Freda rose from her seat, and shook hands very warmly with Mr and Mrs Prothero. She had made up her mind to do the same with Rowland; but just as she approached the door near which he had been standing, he said he would go out and see whether the carriages were ready, and did so accordingly. They followed him as soon as the leave-takings were over, and found him waiting at the gate. He immediately assisted Lady Mary and Miss Nugent into their carriage, leaving Colonel Vaughan to perform the same office for Miss Gwynne and Miss Hall. Mr Gwynne stayed to shake hands with him, and tell him that he should always be glad to see him; and Colonel Vaughan promised to pay him a visit as soon as he went to town. The former got into the carriage, the latter upon the box to drive. Rowland stood by the door a moment irresolute.

'Good-bye, Mr Rowland,' said Miss Hall, 'I shall hope often to see your mother.'

'Thank you, Miss Hall,' said Rowland, pressing the hand she held out to him with an iron pressure.

Freda was just going to put out her hand across Miss Hall, when Colonel Vaughan touched the horses, and the carriage drove off. Rowland raised his hat, and as he glanced at Freda saw that she was looking at him not altogether unkindly. After those words of hers, he never could have shaken hands with her, unless she made the advance; and so they parted, he believing her too proud to acknowledge him after what he had said to her; she admiring what she considered his pride and resentment a great deal more than she had ever done his humility.

THE LOVER.

Spring came round again, and Owen and Gladys were still at the farm. The following conversation will show how they went on together.

'Let me carry that bucket for you, Gladys,' said Owen, one evening when she was proceeding across the farm-yard, to carry a warm mesh to a sick cow.

'It is not heavy, sir,' said Gladys, gently.

'It is too heavy for you, ma'am, said Owen, emphasising the 'ma'am.'

He took the bucket from her, and carried it to the shed, where Gladys dosed and fed her sick cow so very tenderly, that Owen was impelled to say,—

'I wish I were that cow.'

'Oh, sir! she is but a poor, sick, witless animal.'

'But she has you to nurse and be kind to her; so I wish I were that cow.'

'Sure, sir, I would be glad to nurse you if you were sick,'

'Would you, Gladys? Then I will be sick to-morrow.'

'I hope not, Mr Owen. Come, poor Mally. Drink it up.'

'Never mind, Mally, but attend to me. Will you not be so cold and stiff, and respectful to me? I hate a girl who "sir's" me as if I were a lord, and makes me curtseys, and never looks at me, and seems as if she hated me—'

'Oh, no, indeed no, sir—'

'And lives all day long in the same house, and scarcely speaks to me. You will drive me off to sea again, ma'am, if you don't take care. Look into my face, and say why you hate me so!'

'I hate no one in the world, sir; much less any one of your name.'

Here the girl looked up from the poor cow who was licking her hand, and round whose neck her arm was flung, into the face of the young man. Owen put his hand on the arm that rested on the cow, and said earnestly,—

'Then treat me as your brother.'

'I have lost my brothers and sisters, and father and mother, and kith and kin. I have seen them all die—all that ever loved me. Oh! Mr Owen! you are too kind—too kind; but do not talk to me so, or it will break my heart.'

Here was even more of Irish feeling than Owen either expected or desired. But he took Gladys's hand in his, and, looking kindly from his large honest dark eyes into hers, said,—

'Forgive me, Gladys, for making you think of your sorrows. But you know my dear sister Netta is as good as lost to me, and I want some one who will be like her, or at least, who will not be quite as cold as clay.'

'Gladys withdrew her eyes and her hand. There was even more than brotherly warmth in that kind glance and winning manner.

'Thank you, sir, I will try; indeed I will,' said Gladys, as she took up the bucket, and turned to leave the shed.

'Thank you, ma'am, you are very obliging, but you are not going to carry my bucket.'

'Oh,' sir! if you please do not speak so to a poor servant girl like me. I would rather not hear it.'

'You will not see, or hear, or believe what I do, and say and think all day long; so now, here, where nobody else can listen, you must hear me. You must learn to be happy with us, you must love us, you must—'

'Oh! I do, sir, I do. Let me go, sir, if you please.'

'Not until you hear that you must love me, even me whom you cannot bear.'

'Oh! I do, sir—I do. I thank you, I pray for you, I love you all, always; indeed, indeed, I do.'

'But better than all the others, as I love you, so as to be my wife when—when—'

'Let me go, Mr Owen, if you please. You must not talk to me so, sir; me, just now a beggar at your gate.'

'But I must, I will, and you must listen. In spite of myself, and of your cold manners and pale face, and all the trouble you take to avoid me, I love you, Gladys, and will marry you if you will have me. I will give up the sea, and become a steady fellow, and live at home, and make you and my parents happy, and—'

'Oh! Mr Owen, if your parents were to hear you talking like this to me, what would they say to you? what would they think of me? You should not make a joke of my poverty and friendless state, sir. Anything else, but not this! oh! not this! and from you.'

'I was never more in earnest in all my life, and ask for only one word of encouragement from you to go and tell my and mother directly,'

'Oh! if you please, Mr Owen, do not do this. If are in earnest, sir, and I hope you are not, you must forget that you ever said this to me.'

'I do not mean to forget it, Gladys, or to let you forget it. Will you say the word? only give me hope and all will be right. Will you marry me, and be the daughter of your adopted mother?'

'I can never marry any one, sir; I have nothing to live for in this world, but to try to do my duty to you and yours, and to think of those I have lost.'

'Gladys, your cold manner maddens me. Say you hate me, and would rather marry some one else; say anything that has some heart in it. We sailors are made of warmer stuff than such icebergs as you.'

'I cannot say that, sir, because I do not hate you; and I never mean to marry, and I would sooner die than cause trouble in your family.'

'Then you won't have me, Gladys? and you mean to send me back to sea again, and to make me return to my wild ways, and to make my mother miserable?'

'Och hone! what will I do? Why do you say such things to me, Mr Owen, who have never done you any harm? I cannot marry—I cannot do what would be wicked and ungrateful—I will go away again back to old Ireland, and not cause trouble to those who have been so good to me.'

'No, you will not do anything of the kind, unless you wish me to go after you. I shall tell my father that I will be off to sea again, and then I need not trouble you any more.'

'I will not stay, Mr Owen, to make mischief; so if you will only please to stop at home with your parents I will go away.'

'I shall not please to do anything of the kind, for I only stayed so long on your account, and this is the reward I get.'

Owen was in a passion, and vainly striving to keep it down. His face was flushed, he looked angrily and moodily upon the drooping head of Gladys as it bent lower and lower over the poor cow upon which she was leaning. He suddenly seized her hand, and exclaimed,—

'I am not used to be refused in this cool sort of way, and I don't believe there ever was a woman in the world who doesn't wish to get married to some one or other. Now whether you mean to have me or not is not the question I am going to ask; but whether you have any other lover, or ever had one that you prefer to me?—Tell me this, and I shall be satisfied.'

Gladys tried to draw away her hand from the impetuous young man, but he held it fast.

'You needn't be afraid; I would not hurt a hair of your head. And if you knew what I am feeling now at this moment you will tell me the truth. Will you answer me a few questions?'

'Yes, Mr Owen, if I can without doing or saying what is wrong.'

Owen looked Gladys again in the face, as she slightly raised her head to answer his question. Why that burning blush? Why those bright, expressive eyes, if she did not care for him? For a moment he had hope, and pressed the hand he held. Again she bent over the cow that divided them, and tried to withdraw her hand.

At any other time Owen would have laughed at the notion of making an offer, divided from his beloved by a fine Alderney cow, but now he was too much in earnest for laughing.

'Gladys, do you love my brother Rowland?' he asked.

Gladys now looked at him in unfeigned astonishment as she answered,—

'No, Mr Owen; surely I have never given you reason to suppose so. A grand gentleman like him!'

'But there is a still grander of whom I am jealous,' continued Owen. 'Colonel Vaughan, I have often seen him here upon every excuse—and always to look at you. I have seen him, and know it well. Do you care for this great gentleman?'

'Oh! no sir,' said Gladys, sadly. 'How can you suspect me of such a thing? Are my manners so forward, or am I so foolish as to let any one suppose I could think of people so far above me? This is not kind, Mr Owen.'

'One more, Gladys. Those beneath you, then. You cannot, I feel you cannot, think of that gardener or footman at the Park, or of young Gwillim, the Half Moon, or—there are so many who admire you, Gladys.'

'Oh! no, sir, I do not think so; no one says so to me, and I care for none of them. Now, I had better go, if you please, Mr Owen—my mistress will be wanting me.'

'I should think she 'ould, seure enough,' said a stentorian voice, as Mr Prothero entered the cow-house, having just heard the last words, and seen the clasped hands.

Gladys looked entreatingly at Owen, who at once said, 'It was my fault that she stayed here, I kept her against her will.'

Gladys glanced gratefully at Owen, and left him with his father; but before she was out of hearing, the farmer's loud voice was audible, informing Owen that he 'didn't want another 'lopement from his house; and that that Irish beggar should leave the place.'

'It was all chance, father, and my fault,' said Owen.

'It's always chance and your fault then. Where Gladys is, you're seure to be pretty near. She's a good sort of young 'ooman enough, but you have no call to be for ever hunting after her.'

'I don't see why I shouldn't if I like. It doesn't hurt anybody, and is only kind to her.'

'But I don't cheuse her to be thinking you're going to make love to her, and by-and-by, perhaps, expecting to—there's no knowing what young 'oomen may expect.'

'She isn't one to expect very much, and I am sure she doesn't take any liberties with any one, or go beyond her place.'

'Treue for you there; but that's no fault of yours. You don't take notice of any other female that I see, and seure you eused to make love to them all in turns.'

'I don't see any girl half as good as Gladys, or worthy to light a candle to her, that's why I have given them all up.'

'Name o' goodness what for? If you are going to make a fool of yourself about her, I'll soon send her away, and stop that anyhow.'

'You may save yourself the trouble, father, for I am going away myself. I can't be a land-lubber any longer, and I won't, so I shall look out for a ship, pretty soon.'

'All because that girl came here to bother us. Deet to goodness, them Irishers have been the plagues of my life ever since I married.'

'But she's Welsh, father, and you said so yourself.'

'She's a mongrel, and no good ever came out of them.'

'She saved mother's life, anyhow.'

This reflection posed the worthy farmer. He softened somewhat in his reply.

'Treue for you again there. But that's no reason for your going to sea, just when you're getting euseful here.'

'Well, father, thank you for saying for once in my life that I'm useful. You never said that before.'

'And it don't seem out of any great favour to us that you are euseful now; but only to please an Irish beggar.'

'I tell you what, father, if you were anybody else, you shouldn't call her an Irish beggar.'

As Gladys went on her way, she heard the voices, ever louder and louder; she hurried into the house, and then to her own little bedroom, where she still seemed to hear the words, 'Irish beggar,' and a little spark of the pride of poor human nature kindled in her heart.

'They shall not quarrel about me—they shall not throw my misery after me—they shall not think I want to marry him—I will go away,' were her muttered expressions. 'Why have I lived—why have I been kindly treated? if I am to be the sport and the by-word of my friends? A poor outcast—an Irish beggar—- a lone girl, friendless, homeless, heartless, wretched, miserable! Och hone! what will I do? what will I do?'

She threw herself on her bed and sobbed.

'And I only want to do my duty—to show my gratitude—to die for the mistress, if needs be, and they will think me forward and vain. Why was I born to cause trouble and to bear such misery? Oh! mother, mother, if you were here to comfort your poor child! If I could but go after you! if I could but go away to my mother and all the lost ones!'

This thought of her mother and the lost ones seemed to overpower her for a few seconds, and then to calm her. She rose from her bed, and fell upon her knees and prayed.

'I can go to them, if they cannot come to me. I can fill my place of sorrow, as is best for me. I need not bring trouble on this blessed home! I will not. I need not send away that kind Mr Owen from his family. I will not. Why does he think of a poor, wretched being like me? Why has he been so good to me; so tender to me—as if he were my brother? If I go away, he will think of some one else, and make them all happy here, and live with them, and be good and steady. And I shall be only one sufferer instead of many. May God bless them all! I will go away, but never to see him more!—never, never!' Thus thought Gladys. For half-an-hour, whilst she was striving to calm herself, such thoughts and thousands of others flitted through her mind; but she did not murmur again at the sad lot which had been assigned to her by Providence; she had gathered strength in that prayer which she had offered up out of her trouble of heart. Still she felt aggrieved by her master's hard words, knowing as she did that she did not deserve them; but she struggled hard to conquer that pride which she knew ill became one in her dependent and friendless state.

When she had sufficiently recovered herself, she went down to prepare the supper, according to her custom. She found the hall empty, and wondered what had become of her master and mistress. She glanced into the garden, and saw them walking up and down engaged in earnest conversation, although the hour was late and it was getting dark and chill. She felt that they were talking about her. She would not listen, and returned to spread the table for their evening meal; whilst doing so, Owen made his appearance.

'Gladys,' he said, 'shake hands with me, and forgive me for causing you pain. I hope it will be the first and last time.'

Gladys held out her hand, saying 'Oh, Mr Owen, I have nothing to forgive, I am only very sorry''

As Owen held her hand, in stalked Mr Prothero, followed by his wife. He was not looking very well pleased when he entered, but finding them together, his dark frowning brow became still darker.

'Good-night, mother,' said Owen, 'I don't want any supper. Good-night, father,' he added with a strong effort, but receiving no response, he left the room.

Gladys longed to follow his example, but feared it would not be right.

'Gladys, I fear you are not well,' said Mrs Prothero gravely, but kindly, 'perhaps you would like to go to bed.'

'Thank you, ma'am,' said Gladys, glancing furtively at her mistress, whose gentle face looked perplexed and anxious.

'Good-night, then,' said Mrs Prothero.

Gladys could not speak, for there was something constrained in the manners of her dear mistress, that she could not bear to see. She did not venture to speak to Mr Prothero, but dropping him a silent curtsey, as she left the room, went to bed, but not to sleep.

That night, Mrs Prothero went to her son, Owen's room, and heard the history of the evening. He told her that he loved Gladys, but that she did not care for him; and that his father would not believe him when he said so. Mrs Prothero gave him a maternal lecture on his conduct, and the impossibility of his marrying Gladys, particularly whilst his father was so irritated against his sister. She rallied him, in a quiet way, on his various previous loves, and said that she had no doubt he would forget his present one in the same manner.

She was struck with the unusually grave tone of his reply, as he simply said, that if Gladys were like his other loves, he might forget her in the same way; but as she was quite different from any one he had ever liked before, so he should remember her as he had never before remembered any one. She was also struck with his manner of wishing her good night, and of recommending Gladys to her care, entreating her not to be less kind to her than she had always been, because he had the misfortune to love her.

Mrs Prothero promised all he desired, scarcely believing, as she did so, in the depth of his affection.

'And, mother, fach,' he said, 'you must not be vexed if I run away again to cure myself. There is nothing like sea air for my disease; and if I do, I promise to write regularly, and to come home at the end of my voyage. Only be kind to Gladys, and don't let her go away.'

Owen had a presentiment, that if he did not leave Glanyravon, Gladys would.

'And you must try to bring father round by degrees. I don't want to annoy him; and I know you are as fond of Gladys as if she were your own daughter, and father likes her, too. Will you try, mother?'

'Anything to keep you at home, and steady, my son,' said Mrs Prothero with tears in her eyes, 'but you must not go away again, we cannot do without you.'

'Only this once, for change of air; I assure you it is best'

'Well, we will talk of this again, Owen; good night, and God bless you.'

'Just tell father not to be angry with me or Gladys, and that I can't run away with her, because she won't have me. Good night, mother dear.'

Again Owen kissed his mother, more lovingly than usual, and so they parted for the night.

THE FUGITIVE.

Gladys did not go to bed all that night. If her mistress could have watched her occupations, seen her tears, and listened to her prayers, she would, at least, have known that she was grateful. The first thing she did was to finish a cap that she had been making for her, the next to complete a large piece of ornamental netting, that had been long in secret progress, and had been intended as a present for that dear mistress's birthday on the morrow. The third, last and most difficult, was to write a letter. Gladys usually wrote easily and well. She had been accustomed to assist her father at an early age, and had been carefully taught by her mother, but on the present occasion she considered every sentence with a too painful thoughtfulness, and literally blotted her writing with her tears.

Morning was beginning to dawn before she had finished these tasks, and then she washed her face and hands, took off the pretty cotton gown she had on, and put on the one Netta gave her when first she came to Glanyravon. An old straw hat that she had been in the habit of wearing in the fields, and a tidy, but plain shawl, completed her attire. She had a few shillings which Mr Prothero had given her, and these she put into her pocket, together with a pincushion, and a curious foreign shell, gifts of Owen.

She thought of Netta, and of her very different flight from the same house; she fancied that if she had been in her place, no lover, however dear, could have prevailed upon her to leave so good a mother; but she was different. An orphan and a beggar, she had no right to remain to cause dissension between father and son.

And so she fell upon her knees, and prayed for blessings on every member of that family; she forgot no one, not even poor Owen, whose suit she had rejected. Most especially she prayed that he might be a comfort to his parents, and turn from his wild, wandering ways, to those of rest and sobriety; she particularly used that latter word, which would have sounded formal in less earnest lips.

With tearful eyes, and throbbing heart, but with a resigned spirit, she rose from her knees, took her little bundle in her hand, and went quickly out into the passage. She did not trust herself to pass the doors of her slumbering friends, but went by the back-staircase into the kitchen, and thence into the yard. There was a thick mist over the face of nature, falling like a heavy veil on the rising sun, and making the early day but a lengthened night; not a sound was heard, not an animal had yet been aroused from sleep, save Lion, the large watch-dog, whose duty it was to wake when others slept, and he bounded towards Gladys, and her suppressed, 'Down, Lion, down,' failed to quiet him. As she hurried up the road, he ran after her, and it was not until she reached the gate, that she had courage to command him with heightened voice, and threatening manner, to go home. The dog crouched, and then licked the hand, upraised to send him back. Poor Gladys fell upon his neck, and burst into tears. He licked off the tears with a wistful, canine earnestness and love, and again prepared to follow her.

'Back, good dog! Home, Lion!' said Gladys.

The dog turned away with his tail between his legs, and walked half-way down the road. Gladys hurried through the gate, and along the public road, shutting the gate behind her upon Lion. No sooner was she out of sight than the tail was again in motion, the head turned, and Lion was peering over the hedge after her. As she swiftly pursued her way, turning neither to the right nor to the left, she did not perceive the faithful friend that was literally dogging her steps; but still Lion followed; and thoughtless of master and mistress at home, kept in view the poor beggar-girl who had managed to win his love, together with that of all the animal kind around and about Glanyravon.

Thus pursuing her unknown way, and thus pursued by Lion, we must leave Gladys and return to the farm.

At the usual hour, Mrs Prothero came down to breakfast; no Gladys was visible, and no neat table was laid for the early meal. Mrs Prothero asked the servants if they had seen Gladys, and they said she had not yet come down; not altogether ill-pleased to find the favourite, for once, in fault. Mrs Prothero thought that the events of the past night had probably made her ill; and relenting from her somewhat severe feelings towards her, she went upstairs to see what was the matter. Receiving no answer to her tap at the door, and call of 'Gladys,' she went into her little room. She saw all neat as usual, and the bed unruffled. Her heart misgave her, and she painfully remembered the morning of Netta's flight. As if by instinct she went to the small dressing-table, and at once had her fears confirmed. Very sadly she took up the pretty cap that was left there, and looked at the large piece of netting to which was appended a paper. She unpinned the paper, and read the following words:—'For my dear mistress, with respectful wishes, and best prayers for many happy returns of the day.'

Mrs Prothero unfolded the work slowly, and saw two handsome, long, netted window curtains, with a fancy border, that must have taken hours from the donor's sleep to accomplish. As she unfolded them, a letter fell upon the floor.

Poor, nervous Mrs Prothero, rubbed her hands over one another several times before she had the courage to pick it up, and then she scarcely dared to open it. As she made the attempt, however, a cry of 'Mother! mother! why isn't my breakfast ready?' was heard from the foot of the stairs, proceeding from Mr Prothero's lusty voice, who was too proud and too angry to call for Gladys.

Mrs Prothero ran downstairs with the letter in her hand.

'My dear David, I am afraid Gladys is gone,' she said tremblingly.

'Well, let her go,' said the farmer. 'A good riddance. But what do you mean?'

Mrs Prothero told of the empty room, unused bed, cap, curtains, and letter.

'This house is bewitched!' said Mr Prothero. 'What's in the letter?'

'Indeed, I don't know, Davy bach!' said the wife, giving him the document.

Mr Prothero took out his glasses, wiped them deliberately, and put them on, whilst his wife stood before him rubbing her poor little hands as usual.

'What a good hand the girl writes,' said Mr Prothero, as he carefully unfolded the letter, and then began to read aloud as follows:—

'DEAR AND HONOURED MISTRESS,—Before leaving for ever your blessed home, I beg you will allow me to write you a few lines, and I hope you will not think me too bold in so doing. I am going away, because I would not cause trouble to you, or my good, kind master. May it please God to bless you both for ever and ever! As long as I live I shall pray for you and love you! If I am too bold, forgive me, but my heart is full. I can only thank you for all you have done for me, by my prayers! Farewell! my dear, kind, honoured mistress and master. You will be rewarded in this world for your care of the poor orphan, who prays to meet you in the next.—GLADYS.'

It was evident that the writer had been obliged to conclude hastily, because her paper was so wet with tears that she could write no more.

When Mr Prothero finished reading, he hemmed two or three times and cleared his throat, and took off his spectacles and wiped them; then perceiving that his wife was crying like a child, he said,—

'Don't be so fullish!' Suddenly recollecting himself, he exclaimed, 'Where's Owen? Go you, mother, and see if we haven't had another 'lopement,'

'No fear of that,' said Mrs Prothero, leaving the room to do her husband's bidding.

She stayed so long that Mr Prothero, out of patience, bustled after her. He found her standing before an open, half-empty chest of drawers. The room was very untidy, and here, also, the bed had not been slept in the past night.

Mrs Prothero was rubbing her hands and crying pitifully; more from fear of her husband's wrath than from sorrow for Owen, because she had anticipated a sudden flight.

Mr Prothero began to stamp with rage. It was a long time before he could speak, and his wife had a certain fear that he would choke. At last words found vent.

'The impudent, lying, hypocritical, young baggage! The ungrateful, disobedient, good-for-nothing brute! Ach a fi! upon 'em both. That's what you get by harbouring Irish beggars!—that's the return they make! A pale-faced, deceitful hussy!'

'Davy, bach! they are not gone together,' said Mrs Prothero, half-believing at the same time that they were.

'Shall I lay breakfast, ma'am?' interrupted Shanno, putting her head in at the door and grinning suspiciously.

'Go your way, and mind your own business,' said Mr Prothero.

Shanno disappeared.

'I'll go out and see whether either of the horses is gone. Go you and make breakfast—the good-for-nothing—'

'Just let me tell you first what Owen said to me last night,' said Mrs Prothero. 'I don't think he ever deceived us, Davy; and if he did wrong, he was never the one to hide it.'

'Treue for you! Well, what did the young scamp say? I don't blame him half as much as that meek, pale-faced, still-water thing, who's as deep as the north star, I'll be bound.'

'But Owen told me, seriously, that she refused to have anything to say to him, and begged me to be kind to her when he was gone away, for his sake.'

'Nothing but a trap to take you in—the deceitful young puppies—the—the—'

'Go and look about the horses and I'll make breakfast.'

He went accordingly. All the horses were safe. Nothing was missing anywhere but Lion.

'I 'ouldn't take twenty pounds for that dog,' said Mr Prothero when he returned to the house, and sat down to breakfast.

'Hadn't we better send to look for them?' asked Mrs Prothero timidly.

'I'll see 'em hanged first. What! go and make another hullabaloo all through the country, as if one wasn't enough in one house. No, not I. Let 'em go to sea, or where they will; but don't tell anybody anything about 'em. Let people think what they will; I only wish I was at the world's end. But it's all your fault. Do you remember that morning when you bothered me into letting the girl stay? Fine things have come of it, seure enough.'

'But we don't know that they're together.'

'But we do, I say, Mrs Prothero; or why should they go off together? Fine things, indeed, for the gossips! Two 'lopements from one house. The young hussy.'

Mrs Prothero could not help crying. To lose them both at once—a son and one who had been better than a daughter to her—it was too sad—and to feel so uncertain as to what would become of them!

Mr Prothero was resolved to take no notice of her tears, but hastily swallowed his breakfast and went out. The servants did not need to be asked about the fugitives. They were all sure that they had run away together. Gladys, good and quiet as she seemed, was deep enough; and they had managed so well that nobody had seen them! Not like Miss Netta, who was so open! Many had seen her when she ran away!

Mrs Prothero sent one of the men off in a search for Lion, feeling sure that if he were found, Gladys would be discovered.

At about eleven o'clock, to Mrs Prothero's great delight, Miss Gwynne and Miss Hall called to see if the report about Owen and Gladys were true, and to hear what Mrs Prothero thought of it. Miss Gwynne was highly indignant.

'You cannot believe it, Mrs Prothero. That girl Gladys would no more run away with any man living than I would. If Mr Prothero won't send after her I will. Where is he?'

'Shall I send and tell him you want to speak to him?'

'By all means—directly.'

Mr Prothero was soon in the house again, at Miss Gwynne's bidding. He looked more than usually red and excited.

'Mr Prothero, I would stake my life upon it, that girl has not gone off with your son. I don't like the Irish, or their beggars more than you do; but I am very fond of Gladys, and she shall not lose her character, or die of starvation whilst I have a horse to send after her, or a shilling to help her.'

'That's very well for you, Miss Gwynne, but Owen is no relation of yours; and I don't cheuse him to marry an Irish beggar. This house is bewitched, and my children are bewitched, all except Rowland.'

Miss Gwynne wondered what Mr Prothero would think of him if he knew all.

'Well, Mr Prothero, will you send after Gladys, or shall I? You needn't have her back here. There is a situation of schoolmistress or lady's maid for her at once. I will take her in either capacity.'

'Indeed, Mr Prothero,' said Miss Hall, 'I think you may trust Gladys; that letter is sincere if ever anything was.'

'Who is to search, for there is no time to lose?' asked Miss Gwynne.

She was the only person in Wales who would have moved Mr Prothero, but he never could refuse her anything.

'What you say, Miss, is seure to have sense in it. I never knew you take to any one yet who wasn't worth something, so I'll just ride myself and look after 'em both. I shouldn't like people to fancy we were in a fuss and fright. But remember, Miss Gwynne, it is to oblige you; and if I find that she has run away with my son—'

'You may do what you like, Mr Prothero, for then I will have nothing to say to her. But go at once, and thank you very much.'

'I'll go Swansea way, for I am sure they'll take to the sea. Ach a fi! what's gone to the young people.'

In less than a quarter of a hour Mr Prothero had mounted his best mare, and muttering a great many Welsh oaths, was soon riding in search of the fugitives. When he got out of his own immediate neighbourhood, he began to ask whether 'a tall, dark, young man, and a tall, pale, young 'ooman' had been seen.

'Is it a couple of gipsies, Mr Prothero?' asked a farmer, who lived about seven miles from Glanyravon. 'I did see a dark man, and a sallow 'ooman go up the lane by now.'

'Was the man like my son Owen?'

'Well, I didn't be seeing his face, but I shouldn't wonder.'

Up the lane Mr Prothero went for a good half mile, and at last reached a gipsy encampment, where there were plenty of dark men, and sallow women, but not Owen and Gladys.

A shrewd old gipsy, seeing him evidently on the search for some one, assured him before he had asked any questions, that she had seen those whom he was looking for.

'Where?' asked the farmer.

'Cross my hand with a silver coin, and I'll tell ye,' she said.

He gave her a shilling.

'Young couple, my lord?' asked the woman.

Mr Prothero nodded assent.

'Dark and fair, yer honour?'

Another nod.

'I never tell secrets under a half-a-crown, but I have seen them, sir. Young man something like you, and handsome.'

'Make haste and tell, you cheat and vagabond,' said Mr Prothero, throwing her eighteenpence.

'Up the first turning to the right, off the road, over the hill,' said the woman.

'When?'

'An hour ago.'

Mr Prothero rode quickly down the lane, along the turnpike, up the first turning to the right, and then up a long and tedious hill.

It will be unnecessary to describe how Mr Prothero wandered over this hill for hours, without finding those he sought. As the said hill was a short cut to the road to Swansea, whither he was persuaded they were gone, it is not much to be wondered at that he was taken in, and that he went on as fast as his good horse would go for many a long mile; but he found neither Owen nor Gladys, and all his inquiries after them were fruitless.

Towards evening he returned home, tired and very cross, and found his good wife looking anxious and unhappy, and ready to say at any moment, 'Dear, dear, how I do miss Gladys.'

A messenger from the Park was awaiting him, with a note from Miss Gwynne, inquiring whether he had found the poor girl or not. He was obliged to write a few respectful lines in reply, to inform her of the failure of his search.

'I wish we had never set eyes on the girl,' he muttered, as he was writing the note with much pains and some difficulty. 'To take off Owen, too, just as he was getting euseful, and he such a good writer and accountant.'

Still more heartily did he repeat that wish several times during the night. Mrs Prothero could not sleep, and what with her anxiety about Gladys, sorrow for the departure of Owen, and longing to see her own daughter, her mind was excited beyond its wont. As is often the case under such circumstances, she fancied she heard all kinds of noises in the house; once she was sure some one was coming upstairs, and another time that there was a tapping at the front door. She crept softly out of bed, and half fancying she should find Gladys without, went downstairs, and opened it. Nothing was visible but the flickering moonbeams amongst the trees, or audible save the tinkling of the brook through the farm-yard.

'Name o' goodness, what's the matter now?' ejaculated the farmer, as the creaking of the bedroom door awoke him.

'Don't be angry, Davy, bach, but I can't sleep for thinking of that poor girl; maybe she's without a roof to cover her.'

'Owen'll see to that. 'Tis a hard case a man mayn't sleep in his bed because of a good-for-nothing wench like her.'

The next morning, after breakfast, when Mrs Prothero was urging him once more to look for Gladys, and he was vehemently refusing, Miss Gwynne and Miss Hall again made their appearance.

Mr Prothero had to swallow a very broad expression of disgust, as well as to listen politely to that young lady, who persisted in saying she would continue the search for Gladys if he would not.