'I will do my best,' said Rowland, and the glees began in earnest.

All the Protheros were musical, and Rowland had a very fine clear voice.

Miss Hall was right in saying that the Welsh are a musical people; Rowland was a happy example. He had been studying Church music a good deal, and learning to take different parts, so he acquitted himself very creditably in the glees, all of which he had either tried or heard sung.

Freda was quite astonished. She had a great taste for music herself, and a good voice, but would never sing with any one but Miss Hall, a piece of wilfulness that her father occasionally reproached her with. The addition of Rowland was rather agreeable to her, as it enabled them to sing the glees that she was fond of. She no longer objected to the chess, and when her father proposed giving Rowland his revenge on the morrow, she added, 'And then we can wind up with a few more glees.'

Rowland bowed his thanks and departed.

During the ensuing month there were frequent chess and glee clubs at Glanyravon. What the effect such a.s.sociations had upon Rowland he never confided to any one, but when Miss Hall expressed her opinion that 'Mr Prothero was a sensible, unaffected young man, but shy,' Freda condescended to say, 'Well, he is not quite such a Goth or half as affected as I fancied he was, but he has a very good opinion of himself, nevertheless.'

In due course Rowland went to London to be ordained, and so ended the chess and glee clubs.

CHAPTER XI.

THE SAILOR.

Argument and persuasion were alike thrown away upon Netta Prothero. She would make no promises, no concessions; she stood her ground with the obstinacy of a Cadwallader. Her father stormed for about a week, when he got tired of the subject and of Netta's resolute manner and cross face, and gave it up. He heard that Howel had started for London, having put his affairs in the hands of an attorney, and that it was not at all unlikely that he would marry some lady of rank. He laughed heartily at the notion. It was also rumoured that he meant to return and take a place in the neighbourhood, stand for the county, and be one of the greatest men in South Wales. In short, the enchanter, the merlin, the open sesame, the omnipotent sorcerer _gold_ was to work the miracles to which Howel had been so long looking forward. And the gossips were not far wrong. Gold is truly a famous master-key to all hearts and to all companies.

But whilst the gossips--and who is not a gossip in a country neighbourhood?--whilst the gossips were settling Howel's future so comfortably and respectably for him, he was dispensing his gold amongst gamblers and the like--paying debts of honour as they are called.

However, Mr Prothero thought it not unlikely that what the gossips said might prove true, and was therefore tolerably comfortable about his spoilt pet, Netta. When his anger and her pouting had subsided, matters went on much as usual for a time at the farm. Even the blaze that was kindled at the incursion of the Irish girl, had well-nigh gone out, and Mr Prothero had nearly forgotten her existence.

She, meanwhile, was slowly recovering under Mrs Prothero's kind care.

One day, that good woman was sitting with her in the little room that had been allotted to her, and said,--

'Is there anything you could think of that would amuse you, my dear?'

'If I might--' Gladys began and paused.

'Pray, go on, do not be afraid to ask.'

'If I might only make up that cap for you, ma'am, I should be so proud.

I used to make caps at home.'

Mrs Prothero was manufacturing a cap for herself, and had a certain womanly fear as to how it would turn out, if transferred to other fingers; but she did not like to refuse the request, so she resigned it into the thin hands of Gladys. She was almost immediately called away, and did not return for some hours. When she again visited her invalid she found her quite excited with her work that she had just completed.

'Oh, what a pretty cap!' said Mrs Prothero, quite astonished at the taste displayed. 'I must just run and show it to Netta--I am so much obliged to you.'

Mrs Prothero left the room and soon returned, followed by her daughter.

'Can you trim bonnets as well as make caps?' asked Netta, forgetful of infection when her personal interest was involved.

'Yes, miss, a little,' replied Gladys modestly.

'I wish you would trim mine for me to-morrow.'

'Oh, thank you, miss! If you will only let me try I shall be so grateful.'

'She does not seem like a beggar after all,' thought Netta. 'Who taught you to work so nicely?' she said aloud.

'I was apprenticed to a mantua-maker and milliner for six months, miss, and after that I worked for the neighbours.'

'How could you work for them, when they are all rags and tatters?'

'There were some farmers' wives, miss,' said Gladys, colouring slightly, 'and the clergyman's family, and the steward's--I used to work for them.'

'Then how came you here?'

'People couldn't work, or pay for work, miss, when every one was starvin' around them.'

Mrs Prothero looked at Netta reproachfully. The girl was not really hard-hearted, so she changed the subject.

'I daresay you can knit and mark samplers?' she said.

'Yes, miss, mother taught us to do that at school.'

'I think, Netta,' interrupted Mrs Prothero, 'that she must go to bed now. She looks tired, and has been up long enough.'

'What a fuss mother makes about the girl,' muttered Netta as she left the room.

The following day the bonnet was tastily trimmed under Netta's superintendence, and work enough hunted up to employ Gladys for a month at least. Netta even found an old cotton gown, which she presented to her in return for her labours. It was not long enough, but Gladys thought she might be able to lengthen it.

Whilst her convalescence and Netta's needlework were thus progressing, there was an arrival at the farm. One evening the family were a.s.sembled in the large hall, their usual sitting-room. Mr Prothero was reading the newspaper at a small round table, with an especial candle to himself.

His worthy wife was mending or making shirts. At another round table, not very far off, Netta had some work in her hands, and one of Captain Marryat's novels open before her.

'Why don't you do your work instead of reading those trashy stories, Netta?' suddenly exclaimed Mr Prothero.

'I am working, father,' said Netta.

'Pretty working sure enough. What nonsense have you got reading now?'

'Peter Simple, father, oh it is so funny.'

'Ah! it was that stupid stuff, and 'The Pilot,' and 'The Spy,' and I don't know what else, that sent Owen off to sea. I suppose it's there you learn all your nonsense. I wish you would read the cookery book, and help your mother to take care of the house and dairy, instead of doing what's no good in the world.'

A loud knocking at the door interrupted a rather pert reply.

'Who on earth is that at this time of night?' exclaimed the farmer, throwing down his paper.

'Shanno,' called Mrs Prothero into the pa.s.sage, 'ask who it is before you open the door.'

'It's no great things,' suggested Netta, 'for they're knocking with a stick, and not with the knocker.'