The general exclamations of surprise may be imagined.

‘The girl’s dreaming, like Netta,’ from Mr Prothero.

‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ from Owen.

‘I knew she was true,’ from Mrs Prothero.

‘How can this be, Gladys?’ from Netta.

Gladys told her story simply.  Every one was too much engrossed with it, to think of the pretty picture that wondering family group made; but as we know it already, we will look at the picture whilst she is telling her tale.

The large, old-fashioned sofa is placed at one side of the fire-place, its head against the wall, its foot towards the window, so as to give Netta warmth and the view of the distant hills at the same time.  Between the head of the sofa and the fire-place is an arm-chair, also against the wall, Mr Prothero’s favourite seat; and Minette’s footstool is by the side of her mother, and at the feet of her grandfather.

Netta’s pale face is in shadow, but the large, bright black eyes beam upon Gladys, with preternatural lustre, and the raven hair shines against the white pillow that supports her head.  The broad, massive figure of the father, in its rough work-a-day clothes, is also in shadow.  One elbow rests upon the arm of Netta’s sofa, one hand smooths mechanically the head of his grandchild, resting against his knee.  This large hand and that tender head come within the glow of the fire-light.  His grey head is lifted towards Gladys, on whom his keen black eyes, so like Netta’s, are also fixed.  Minette, too, sitting at his feet, gazes with child-like wonder on Gladys; her long black curls falling over her pale face.  Grandsire, daughter, child, so like one another, and yet so far apart in age.  Three types they are of the ancient Briton.

Opposite this trio, with her left hand clasped in that of Netta, and close to her sofa, stands the fair, blue-eyed, graceful Gladys; thoroughly Irish in beauty, if Welsh in heart.  The red glare of the large bright fire brings out her sweet, earnest face, and slight form.  Her eyes are cast down, as if they cannot support the gaze of so many other eyes, and her cheeks are flushed with a strange excitement.  Towering a full head above her, his arm round her waist, the thick black beard touching her hair is the manly, handsome Owen.  Love, joy, pride, in his honest black eyes, and health on his bronzed and ruddy cheeks.  Seated on the sofa, her arms on Netta’s knees, her head, with its silver hair, and plain white lace cap, eagerly pressed forward, is the well-beloved mother.  For the first time since Netta’s return, grief for the one child, has merged into joy for the other, and prayer and praise for all are in her heart even whilst she listens.

The story is told, Gladys raises her eyes and head somewhat proudly for her.  Owen lowers his, and kisses the pure, white forehead.  There is silence for a few moments, no one can speak for tears.  Owen is the first.