‘How could you work for them, when they are all rags and tatters?’

‘There were some farmers’ wives, miss,’ said Gladys, colouring slightly, ’and the clergyman’s family, and the steward’s—­I used to work for them.’

‘Then how came you here?’

’People couldn’t work, or pay for work, miss, when every one was starvin’ around them.’

Mrs Prothero looked at Netta reproachfully.  The girl was not really hard-hearted, so she changed the subject.

‘I daresay you can knit and mark samplers?’ she said.

‘Yes, miss, mother taught us to do that at school.’

‘I think, Netta,’ interrupted Mrs Prothero, ’that she must go to bed now.  She looks tired, and has been up long enough.’

‘What a fuss mother makes about the girl,’ muttered Netta as she left the room.

The following day the bonnet was tastily trimmed under Netta’s superintendence, and work enough hunted up to employ Gladys for a month at least.  Netta even found an old cotton gown, which she presented to her in return for her labours.  It was not long enough, but Gladys thought she might be able to lengthen it.

Whilst her convalescence and Netta’s needlework were thus progressing, there was an arrival at the farm.  One evening the family were assembled in the large hall, their usual sitting-room.  Mr Prothero was reading the newspaper at a small round table, with an especial candle to himself.  His worthy wife was mending or making shirts.  At another round table, not very far off, Netta had some work in her hands, and one of Captain Marryat’s novels open before her.

’Why don’t you do your work instead of reading those trashy stories, Netta?’ suddenly exclaimed Mr Prothero.

‘I am working, father,’ said Netta.

‘Pretty working sure enough.  What nonsense have you got reading now?’

‘Peter Simple, father, oh it is so funny.’

’Ah! it was that stupid stuff, and ‘The Pilot,’ and ‘The Spy,’ and I don’t know what else, that sent Owen off to sea.  I suppose it’s there you learn all your nonsense.  I wish you would read the cookery book, and help your mother to take care of the house and dairy, instead of doing what’s no good in the world.’

A loud knocking at the door interrupted a rather pert reply.

‘Who on earth is that at this time of night?’ exclaimed the farmer, throwing down his paper.

‘Shanno,’ called Mrs Prothero into the passage, ’ask who it is before you open the door.’

‘It’s no great things,’ suggested Netta, ’for they’re knocking with a stick, and not with the knocker.’

‘Name o’ goodness, what’s the row?’ said the farmer.

‘Who’s there?’ demanded Shanno, in the passage.

The answer did not reach the hall, but Shanno came rushing in, ’It’s them Irishers again, master, upon my deet, they do be here for ever.’

‘Give me my stick!’ exclaimed Mr Prothero, ’if I don’t give them a lesson my name isn’t David.’