‘Very ill indeed, I believe,’ said Netta, rather sulkily.

‘Where is your mother?’

’She has been with the Irish beggar all the morning, and all night too.  I don’t know what father and uncle and aunt will think.’

‘Will you ask your mother whether I can see her for a few minutes?’

‘Certainly.’

’Netta, you must come and dine with us on Wednesday, with your uncle and aunt.’

‘Thank you,’ said Netta, brightening up as she left the room.

‘I’m sure I scarcely know whether she will behave rightly,’ muttered Miss Gwynne, tapping her hand with her riding-whip.

Mrs Prothero soon appeared.

‘You good, clear Mrs Prothero!’ exclaimed Miss Gwynne, running up to her and taking both her hands.  ’You look quite worn out.  How is that poor girl?’

‘Alive, Miss Gwynne, and that is almost all,’ was the reply very gravely uttered.

‘Can we do anything?  Did Dr Richards come?’

‘Yes, Miss Gwynne, and was very kind.  He has been again this morning.’

’I came to invite Mr Rowland and Netta to dinner on Wednesday, with Mr and Mrs Jonathan Prothero.’

’Thank you, Miss Gwynne, I will tell Rowland; but I really think Netta had better not go.’

‘I have just told her of the invitation.’

’Dear me!  I am really very sorry.  I beg your pardon, Miss Gwynne, but it will put ideas into her head above her station.’

‘We shall be very quiet.’

The conversation was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Rowland.  He drew back on seeing Miss Gwynne, and bowed, as usual, profoundly.  She also, as usual, advanced and held out her hand.

’My father begged me to ask if you would come and dine with us on Wednesday,’ said Miss Gwynne.

‘Thank you, I am much obliged,’ stammered Rowland, whilst a bright Hush overspread his face, ’I shall be very happy, if I am not obliged to be elsewhere.  Mother, poor Griffith Jenkins is dead.  I have been there all the night.’

‘Dead!  I had no idea he was so ill!  Oh, Rowland, how did he die?’

’Just as he lived, mother.  With the key of his coffers so tightly clasped in one hand that it was impossible to take it from it after he was dead.  And the said coffers hidden, nobody knows where.  But poor Mrs Jenkins has no friend near who can be of any real comfort to her.  I wish you could go to her for a few hours.’

’This poor girl, Rowland—­what can I do with her?  And your uncle and aunt coming.’

’I think I can manage my uncle and aunt till your return.  As to the poor girl I really know not what to say.’

’Oh! if you will trust her to me, Mrs Prothero, I will nurse her till you come back!’ exclaimed Miss Gwynne eagerly.  ’I assure you I can manage capitally, and will send back the horses, and a message to papa.’

’I am afraid it would not be right—­I think the girl has low fever—­Mr Gwynne would object.’