‘How very absurd, Mr Rowland,’ said that young lady, laughing scornfully.  ’I suppose, according to your law of Christian charity, we must fill our houses with all the Irish beggars that come through Carmarthenshire!  A goodly company!’

‘Have you seen this poor girl.  Miss Gwynne?’

‘No, certainly not, but I know by heart all she has to say.’

‘If you would but just see her,’ said Mrs Prothero entreatingly not daring to contradict the heiress of Glanyravon Park, who had a will of her own, if Mrs Prothero had not.

’With the greatest pleasure; but I know all the “my leddy’s,” “yer honour’s,” and “the sweet face o’ ye,” that I shall hear.’

’Don’t go, Miss Gwynne, you may take the fever.  I wouldn’t go for the world,’ cried Netta.

‘I am not afraid of fevers or anything else, I hope,’ said Miss Gwynne contemptuously.  ’You will be afraid of catching a toothache from infection next,’ and herewith she left the room, followed by Mrs Prothero.

During their short absence, Mr Rowland Prothero read his sister a very proper lecture for a clergyman, on Christian charity and filial obedience, to which she listened with pouting lips and knitted brow, but with no answering speech, good or bad.  She was not silent because she had nothing to say, but because she was afraid of her brother, who was the only person of whom she was afraid.  Her feelings, however, found vent in the leaves of a rose that she was pulling to pieces and scattering ruthlessly.

The lecturer on Christian charity was a tall, gentlemanly-looking young man, whose apparently habitual gravity of deportment warmed into earnestness and animation as he talked to his sister.  He looked and spoke as if his soul were in the words he uttered, and as if it had been choice and not compulsion that led him to become a minister in Christ’s family.

The entrance of Mrs Prothero and Miss Gwynne was a great relief to Netta.  She looked up briskly at the latter, as if sure of sympathy, and if eyes full of tears could give it, she certainly was satisfied.

Mr Rowland Prothero perceived the tears, and retired to his sofa, taking up his book and pretending to read.

’Can I help you, Mrs Prothero?  There does not seem a moment to lose.  I will send for a doctor, or do anything I can,’ said Miss Gwynne.

‘Thank you, dear Miss Gwynne,’ replied Mrs Prothero, ’I will put her in Owen’s room.’

’Who can we get to bring her in?  Shall I go and fetch one of the men?  Netta, do get some one to help us.’

‘I will help you, if you will allow me,’ said Mr Rowland, rising from his sofa, and looking at Miss Gwynne with a glance of warm approval.

’Pray do; now; at once.  I will go with you whilst your mother prepares the room.  You could carry her quite well, for she is as thin as a ghost; I never saw such a wretched girl.’

Miss Gwynne hurried to the barn, followed by Rowland.  They found Gladys with a farm-servant by her side, apparently either dead or asleep.