In a day or two Netta was much better and able to be brought downstairs.  Matters gradually settled into their regular course at the farm, and all went on as usual.  Mr Prothero spent every spare moment with Netta and his grandchild, who soon forgot that ‘grandfather,’ as he insisted on her calling him, ‘talked loud, and had large, rough hands.’  Gladys slipped imperceptibly into her old place, and alternately nursed Netta and helped Mrs Prothero in the dairy.  Owen found many opportunities of entreating Gladys to let him speak to his father, but she positively forbade him, as long as there was painful anxiety about Netta; and, at the same time, angered him by refusing to consider him as her accepted lover until his father’s consent was obtained.  Mrs Prothero schooled her aching heart into outward calm, but her white hair and paleface showed what she had gone through, and was still suffering.  Howel’s name was never mentioned, except between Netta and Gladys.  It was to Gladys that poor Netta opened her mind, and poured out all her hopes and fears about Howel’s return.

The state of that mind varied continually.  Sometimes it was tolerably clear, at others sadly wandering, and the least excitement produced faintness and pain at the heart; still her friends fancied she gained strength.

She had the sofa placed so that she could look out of the parlour-window upon the distant hills.  The weather cleared up brisk and bright.  The red and yellow foliage that still remained to cover the huge trunks of the oaks shone in the sunlight, and the lights and shadows danced upon the mountains.  A few white chrysanthemums, and one or two roses still looked in at the window, upon her who had once been the brightest flower of Glanyravon.

Netta had been at home a fortnight, and was really stronger and better.  The sun was setting behind those distant hills, and casting glorious shades of red, purple, and gold upon them.  She was gazing wistfully on the sky, and thinking of Howel, whilst Minette was sitting on a stool at her feet, turning over a book, out of which she had been reading to her mother, whose chief occupation was trying to teach her.

Mr Prothero came in, and took his customary seat at the head of her sofa.  He was followed, almost instantly, by Gladys, who called Minette out to have her cup of warm milk fresh from the cow, ordered by her doctor.

‘Father,’ began Netta, abruptly, ‘I have something to say to you.’

‘Well, Netta, fach!’ said her father, cheerfully.  ’Say away.  I’m all attention,’

‘Do you like Gladys, father?’

’Of course I do, my dear.  Who could help it?  She’s an excellent young ‘ooman.’

‘I wish you would promise me one thing, father, before I go away.’

‘But you are not going away ever again, my love?’

’Perhaps I may—­far, far away; and perhaps I may go to heaven.  I don’t know.  But I should like, when I go away, to leave you a better daughter than I have ever been to you.  One that will take care of you and mother, and my Minette, as long as you and she live; who will make Owen a good wife and a happy man, as he is now, a good son and brother.  Father, will you take her for my sake?’