'I would try, Mr Owen.'

'Nothing but his consent?

'Nothing, Mr Owen. If you do not change, I cannot.

'Gladys, do not trifle with me. But you could not trifle. Have you cared for me--may I say loved me--all these years?'

'All these years.'

Gladys bowed her head as if in shame over those clasped hands, and a large tear fell upon Owen's. He wanted no other confirmation of her words, and felt, as he had expressed it, the happiest man in the world.

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER.

It was nine o'clock when the fly that took the travellers from Swansea to Glanyravon reached the door of the farm. The night was 'dark and dreary;' very different was the weather, the aspect of external nature; very different were Netta's feelings and all the circ.u.mstances, when she was at home ten years ago. She had been thinking again on all these things during that gloomy drive, when her companions thought she was asleep.

Bright lights are in the windows and pa.s.sage as the travellers look out of the carriage. Mrs Prothero's anxious face is visible in front, Mr and Mrs Jonathan's tall forms above her from behind, the servants are without, Lion is barking joyously, but there is no Mr Prothero.

'Is this Glanyravon, mamma?' asks Minette waking up and rubbing her eyes.

No answer.

Owen jumps out, and without stopping to greet his pale, trembling mother, turns to help Netta, who cannot help herself. He carries a dead weight into the parlour, and lays it on the sofa. Netta has fainted.

Gladys is at her side in a moment with every kind of restorative but no one notices or thinks of her. Mrs Prothero is on her knees rubbing her child's cold hands, and looking as white as the corpse-like daughter thus restored to her. Mr and Mrs Jonathan look at one another, and then at Netta, with a glance of pity and grief.

There is another face for one moment bent over the sofa, and the next a loud heavy groan is heard in the corner of the room that comes from a heart in extreme agony; but no one, save Minette, seems conscious of it. She turns affrighted at the sound, and in the impulse of her quick, warm nature runs to comfort.

'Mamma will be better soon,' she says; 'she is often so. Don't cry so loud, you will frighten her.'

Poor Mr Prothero removes his hand from his eyes to behold, for the first time, his grandchild. Another heavy groan, almost a cry, and he takes the child in his large arms, and presses her to his breast, weeping like an infant.

Netta uncloses her eyes on familiar objects for a moment, and shuts them again. Has she seen the cheerful, old-fashioned parlour, the bright fire, near which the sofa is wheeled, her father's portrait over the mantelpiece, her mother at her feet?

'She is getting better,' whispers Gladys, who still holds her place at Netta's head, with strong salts in her hand, and a bottle and gla.s.s by her side.

Again the eyes unclose, wander restlessly from one anxious face to another, settling on none; close again, once more unclose and look with some consciousness on the breathless group that surrounds the sofa.

'Father! father!' now murmurs Netta; 'where is father?'

The feeble cry has reached that father's ears and inmost heart. He puts down Minette and staggers, blinded by his grief, to the sofa. All withdrew but his wife. He is on his knees before his poor penitent daughter. Her arms are round his neck, and she strives to rise but cannot. Oh! the depth, agony, remorse of that long, silent, paternal, and filial embrace.

'Do you forgive me, father?' asks Netta.

'All--all. G.o.d forgive us both!' groans Mr Prothero.

Mrs Prothero lays her head on her hands on the sofa, by which she kneels, and gives way to a pa.s.sionate burst of grief.

'My poor, poor mistress,' says Gladys, unable any longer to refrain from approaching her. 'All is well; she will be better now.'

'Mother!' cries Netta. 'Don't cry so for me. Come and kiss me, mother.'

Father and mother surround with their arms that wandering, restored lamb, and take it into the fold again.

A little voice from behind is heard.

'Mamma! mamma! think of your poor Minette!'

And in another minute Minette is on the sofa, in the midst of her mother, grandfather, and grandmother.

Blessed are the warm, gushing tears that fall on the child's head--tears of love and reconciliation.

Soon the worthy vicar and his wife, who have thus far been only spectators of the scene, draw near to bless and welcome their niece.

'She will faint again,' whispers Gladys to Owen.

'She is happy now,' replies Owen, looking into Gladys' tearful eyes from his own, equally dimmed with tears. It is the first time he has seen that face since he has known that Gladys loves him.

But Gladys is right--happiness is too overpowering for Netta. She faints in the midst of all those dear ones, so kind and loving.

Again Gladys is at her side to revive her, which she is able to do more quickly than before. When she is better, Gladys raises her pillows, and places her in a more comfortable posture. By degrees every one is conscious that Gladys is present.

'Dear Gladys!' says Netta, 'I am better now; quite--quite well, father!'

'Drink this first,' says Gladys, giving her some wine and water that Owen has brought.

She drinks the wine and water, and again calls her father

'I brought Gladys, father; I cannot do without her. She has saved my life, I think, and mother's, so Owen told me--didn't you, Owen? May she stay with me, father?'

Netta presses her hand to her head, and looks at her father with those bewildered eyes, which are only too sadly irresistible.

'Gladys!' he replies. 'Oh, yes! I haven't seen her yet.'

Gladys is by his side, and he turns and shakes her hand warmly, and says,--

'Thank you, Gladys, thank you, I have heard all; but we will talk of this another time.'

'Best now, father, whilst I remember. She may stay? You like to have her?'

'Of course, of course, my dear.'