WILLIAM JONES.'

Mrs Jonathan Prothero had begun to read this letter with a firm voice.

It faltered before she got half way through it, and nearly failed before she completed it.

'Read the other before you say anything,' said Mr Prothero.

She began accordingly, clearing her throat and eyes at the same time.

'MY DEAR SIR,--I have great pleasure in offering you the living of which you are now curate, vacant by the lamented death of Mr Stephenson. I a.s.sure you that the united request of your friends and parishioners was but the echo of my own will, as I have long known and appreciated your untiring labours for the good of the souls committed to your care, particularly during the long illness of the rector, when you were of necessity brought more prominently forward.

'Praying that G.o.d's blessing may rest on you and your parishioners,--I remain, my dear sir, faithfully yours,

'LONDON.'

'Rowland! my dear nephew!' exclaimed Mr Jonathan Prothero, 'this is incredible! Such a living, without interest, personal application, much acquaintance with his lordship--'

'You forget, my dear,' said Mrs Jonathan interrupting her husband in his speech, and herself in an embrace she was about to give Rowland; 'you forget that Rowland frequently met the bishop at Sir Philip Payne Perry's, and was not without interest, I am proud to say.'

'And I am proud that he has got on by honest merit,' said Mr Jonathan.

'And so am I, uncle, much obliged as we are to the "three green peas,"'

said Owen. 'Let us shake hands upon it, Rowly, and here's Gladys waiting for a kiss; she'll be running away from me again to be your district visitor, or Sister of Charity, or whatever you call it. Quite grand to have a near relation a London rector; I am half a foot taller already.'

'Kiss me, Uncle Rowland; I am very glad the bishop has written you such a nice letter,' said Minette. Rowland took the child up in his arms.

'Grandma Jenkins is crying so in the corner,' she whispered; 'is it for papa, or poor mamma?'

Rowland's attention was instantly recalled to Mrs Jenkins, who was, indeed, crying and sobbing very much. He pointed her out to his mother, who at once went to her.

'Oh! I am thinking of your Rowlands and my Howels, so different!' said the wretched mother; 'he to be beginning life so rich, and your son with nothing; and now! oh, anwyl! oh, anwyl!'

'Come with me, cousin 'Lizbeth,' said Mrs Prothero kindly; 'come upstairs, and I will make you some tea, and then Owen shall send you home.'

Mrs Prothero and Mrs Jenkins left the room, followed by Gladys, who was soon making the required beverage.

Whilst congratulations were still going on in the parlour, Miss Gwynne's voice was heard in the pa.s.sage.

'Not a word to Miss Gwynne, or indeed to any one, of my having the living, to-day at least,' said Rowland, leaving the room hastily, and repeating his request to Gladys in the hall.

'I can only stay a few minutes,' said Miss Gwynne, when she had shaken hands with the party in the parlour, 'I wished to ask how Mrs Prothero is, and to see you, Mrs Jonathan. I have been delayed at the school, and it is nearly dusk already.'

'Oh, don't go yet, Miss Gwynne,' said Minette, creeping up to her, and getting on her lap, 'it is so nice with you. Poor mamma is gone to heaven, Miss Gwynne.'

'Yes, love,' whispered Miss Gwynne, kissing Minette, 'but we will not talk of it before your grandfather, you see it grieves him.'

'But you won't go; it is moonlight now--a pretty moon--I see it. It will light you home.'

The 'pretty moon' rather frightened Miss Gwynne, who said that if she did not go, she would have the servants in search of her.

'Will you allow me to walk with you, Miss Gwynne?' said Rowland; 'it is too late for you to return alone.'

'Thank you, I shall be really obliged, if I am not taking you from your friends. I am a much greater coward than I used to be. London lamps spoil one for country roads. Tell your grandmother that I will come again to-morrow and see her, Minette.'

Miss Gwynne and Rowland left the house together. Mr Prothero saw them to the door, and watched them up the road.

'Strange times!' he said to his brother, when he returned to the parlour. 'Rowland walking with Miss Gwynne quite familiar. I hope he isn't too forward; to be seure he don't offer his arm, or go near her; but it seems out of place their going together in that way at all.

Gwynne, Glanyravon is a proud man, perhaps he 'ouldnt like it; but Rowland is so grand and so good now, that I daren't say a word.'

'Oh!' said Mrs Jonathan, drawing herself up to her fullest height, 'a Rugby boy, and an Oxford man is a companion for any lady--and a London rector is a match for any lady in the kingdom, allow me to a.s.sure you, Mr Prothero; and Rowland has been in quite as good, or better society in town, than you can meet with in this neighbourhood. Sir Philip is quite in the first circles.'

'And Rowland isn't spoilt by it, brother,' said Mr Jonathan. 'He is a son and nephew we have reason to be proud of.'

Thus, in the midst of heavy sorrow, a joy came to the inmates of Glanyravon Farm. A sunbeam through the shadows.

Such, too, is life!

CHAPTER L.

THE DISINHERITED.

Miss Gwynne and Rowland walked on quietly together for a little s.p.a.ce.

There was something in the heart of each, unknown to the other, that seemed to close up speech. It was nearly five o'clock, and a January evening; but for the 'pretty moon' and the white mist from the river, and the frost-bitten snow on the roads, it would have been dark; but it was really a fine, bright night. That river-mist rose from the meadows beneath like a large lake, and the moonlight pierced through it and mingled with it.

It was such a night as lovers of a healthy, natural tone of mind might rejoice in; frost and snow being no refrigerators of true, honest warmth, but rather tending to keep it alive, by exhilarating the spirits and clearing the atmosphere.

Rowland broke the silence, and so clear was the air, that his own voice startled him.

'I am going to London to-morrow, Miss Gwynne; may I give Mrs Jones some hope that you will soon be back again?'

'I fear not,' said Freda; 'my father wishes me to remain at home, and I have decided upon doing so.'

'Not entirely?' asked Rowland, in a voice that all his self-command could not render calm.

'I believe it is so settled. He makes a great point of it. Lady Mary is equally urgent, and I have promised. Do you not think it is right?'

'I suppose so; but what shall we do without you?'

Rowland spoke as he felt, from his heart. Miss Gwynne was touched by the words and tone.

'I shall be very sorry,' she said, simply. 'I never was so happy as in that dingy old square.'

Rowland felt that his new living, with all its increased responsibilities, would be a heavy burden to him without Freda's ready energy to lighten it. He did not at that moment pause to think how closely even our highest duties are entwined with our affections, and thereby lowered to earth--but so it is. The conscientious man does them; but a helping hand, a friendly voice, a loving word, is a wonderful aid towards doing them with a cheerful spirit.