All the Irish are gone except the girl, Davy, _bach_' said quiet Mrs Prothero, 'and they are gone to the Overseer to tell him about her, and I will see that she is sent to the workhouse to-night, that is to say if I can.'

'I suppose you fed and clothed the ragged rascals?'

'I just gave them some sc.r.a.ps for breakfast, and indeed their blessings did me good,'

'I should think they must. People that left a dying girl behind 'em.'

'They promised to come back and see after her when the hay-harvest is over. They are going into Herefordshire to get work, and she, poor thing, is looking for her relations in this county, and meant to get work here.'

'Well, I want my breakfast. I promised brother Jonathan to go to church to-day. He is going to preach a charity sermon for the Church Building Society, and wants my shilling. He and Mrs Jonathan are to come to-morrow, you know, my dear. I hope in my heart everything is as fine as fippence, or my lady 'll turn up her nose.'

'I can't make things neater, Davy.'

This was said by Mrs Prothero, in a desponding tone, quite different from her former quiet cheerfulness, and she accompanied the words by rubbing her hands nervously one over the other.

'There now, don't look as if you were going to be smothered. Mrs Jonathan isn't so bad as all that. I wish to goodness Jonathan hadn't married a fine lady. But then she brought him a good fortune, and it's all the better for our children.'

'I don't want her money.'

'But if it wasn't for her, my dear, Rowland would never have had an Oxford edication.'

'I'd as soon he had gone to Lampeter, or been made a good Wesleyan minister, and then he might have been content to stay in Wales, instead of going off to England.'

'There, there! never mind! He'll be a bishop some day; and though you do still incline to the chapel, you'll be proud of that. Now, name o'

goodness, let's have some breakfast.'

With this peculiarly Welsh interjection, Mr Prothero turned towards the farm, and, followed by his wife, went to the desired repast.

CHAPTER III.

THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER.

'n.o.body has come for that poor girl, Netta, and I have'n't the heart to send her away,' said Mrs Prothero to her only daughter Janetta, towards the close of the Sunday, the morning of which we noticed in the last chapter.

'I am sure, mother, you have been plagued quite enough with her already.

You have neither been to church nor chapel, and scarcely eaten a morsel all the day. I can't imagine what pleasure you take in such people.'

'I wouldn't care if your father was at home; but I don't quite like to have her into the house without his leave, and she is not fit to be left in the barn.'

'Into the house, mother! That wild Irish beggar! Why, father would get into a fury, and I'm sure I should be afraid to sleep in the same place with such a creature.'

'Oh, my dear child! when will it please the Lord to soften your heart, and teach you that all men and women are brothers and sisters.'

'Never, I'm sure, in that kind of way.'

Whilst the mother and daughter continue their conversation about Gladys, of which the above is a specimen, we will glance at Janetta Prothero, the spoilt daughter of Glanyravon Farm.

She is decidedly a pretty girl? some might call her a beauty. She has dark eyes, black hair, a clear pink and white complexion, a round, dimpled cheek, a fair neck, a pa.s.sable nose, and a very red-lipped, pouting mouth. She is small of stature--not much taller than her mother--but so well-formed, that her delicate little figure is quite the perfection of symmetry. Her movements are languid rather than brisk like her mother's, and she either has, or is desirous of having, more of the fine lady in her manners and appearance. We discern, as she talks, more of obstinacy than reason, and more of pride than sense, in her conversation, and the face rather expresses self-will than intellect, although not deficient in the latter.

We are led to suppose, from the appearance of the room in which the mother and daughter are located, that Miss Janetta is somewhat accomplished; more so than young ladies in her position commonly were some thirty or forty years ago. This is a large parlour, with some pretensions to be called a drawing-room. True, the furniture is of old-fashioned mahogany, the sofa of hair, the curtains of chintz, and all that appertains to the master and mistress of the house, of solid but ancient make. But the square piano, the endless succession of baskets, card-racks, etc., the footstools with the worsted-work dog and cat thereon emblazoned, the alb.u.m and other books, so neatly and regularly placed round the table, and above all, three heads in very bad water-colours that adorn the walls--all proclaim the superior education of the daughter of the house, and her aspirations after modern gentility.

We will just take up the thread of the conversation of the mother and daughter at the end of it, and see what conclusions they have arrived at. In a somewhat doggedly excited tone, Miss Janetta says,--

'Well, mother, I know that father would be very angry, and that she might give us all low Irish fever. I shouldn't wonder if she brought a famine with her.'

'Remember, Netta, who said "and if ye have done it unto the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."'

'If those people are one's brethren, as father says, the sooner we disown our relations the better.'

Whilst Miss Janetta was uttering this unchristian speech, and greatly shocking her mother thereby, a young man entered with a book in his hand, and throwing himself on the sofa, began to read. It was soon, however, evident that he was listening to the conversation, although he professedly kept his eyes on his book. Poor Mrs Prothero continued her efforts to enlist her daughter on the side of charity, but did not greatly prevail. The young man did not interfere, probably being aware that it is better to let two women finish their own quarrel.

Again, however, they were interrupted by the appearance of a fourth, and more animated personage.

'Good evening, Mrs Prothero. How do you do, Netta?' exclaimed the new comer, shaking Mrs Prothero's hand, and pulling Netta's curls. Hereupon the young man arose from the sofa, and bowing profoundly, said,--

'Good evening, Miss Gwynne,' with a tone as grave as his appearance.

'I beg your pardon, Mr Rowland,' said the young lady, who we now introduce in form as Miss Gwynne of Glanyravon Park.

With a very becoming grace, she advanced and held out her hand to Mr Rowland Prothero, eldest son of the good farmer and his wife, just returned from Oxford. Mr Rowland slightly touched the hand, bowed again gravely, and placed a chair for Miss Gwynne.

'I thought I should never come here again,' said that young lady, turning from Mr Rowland with a nod and a 'thank you,' and retreating towards the window where the mother and daughter were standing, 'what with the rain, and poor papa's nervous complaints, and all the affairs, I declare I have been as busy as possible.'

'Now, Miss Gwynne, I am sure you will agree with me,' cried Netta, suddenly brightening up and getting animated 'Do you think it right to encourage those Irish beggars?'

'Right! no, of course I don't.'

'And do you think people ought to allow them to come into the house--to take them in, and to--to shelter them in short?'

'Decidedly not. I hope you don't do such things, Mrs Prothero?'

There was a wicked twinkle in a merry eye as this was said.

'The truth is, Miss Gwynne,' said Mrs Prothero, slowly rubbing her hands one over another, 'there is a poor Irish girl in the barn almost dying, and it is impossible to send her to the Union to-night, or to leave her where she is.'

'Oh, I'll write an order for the Union in papa's name. You can't believe a word those Irish say. You had better get her sent off directly.'

This was said with the air of command and decision of one not accustomed to have her orders disputed.

'But, Miss Gwynne, if you only knew--' began the overwhelmed Mrs Prothero.

'I know quite well. We are obliged to commit dozens of them as vagrants, and I should not at all wonder if we should not be compelled to have you taken up some day for harbouring suspicious characters.'