’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