’Upon my deet! he as can be marrying Miss Rice Rice or any young lady in the country!  Mighty condescent, Mr Prothero!’

’Let him marry ’em all, I don’t want him.’

‘Then you won’t let Netta marry my Howels?’

’If he’s study in two years, and they are both in the same mind, they may marry, and be hanged to ’em!  I never was so bothered in my life.  But, between ourselves, I think it’s just as likely your son Howel ’ould be study in two years as my son Owen.’

‘Oh, name o’ goodness, we don’t want Miss Netta!  No ’casion to be waiting!’

’Then don’t wait, ‘ooman!  Who wants you to wait?’

Mrs Jenkins hurried back into the house, and left Mr Prothero with his cattle.

’I must be going now, Mrs Prothero—­my son Howels too!  Thousands and thousands of pounds.  Netta, come you upstairs, my dear, whilst I am putting on my bonnet.’

Mrs Prothero was not duenna enough to accompany them upstairs, and consequently Netta gave a note to Mrs Jenkins, cried a little, and helped her to abuse her parents.

‘Never you mind, Netta, fach,’ were the last words, ’Howels don’t be meaning to give you up.’

‘Good evening, ma’am; good evening, Mr Owen,’ said Mrs Jenkins, as she made the attempt at a curtsey, that caused Owen to show his white teeth again.

‘Oh dear, dear! what will be the end of it?’ said Mrs Prothero to Owen as Netta sulked upstairs.  ‘I wish Rowland was at home.’

‘Very complimentary to your eldest son!’ said Owen, laughing.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE MILLIONAIRE.

Nearly a twelvemonth passed, and an autumn morning again hovered over Glanyravon Farm.  It would seem that all the inmates of the homestead were sleeping; but there was one already awake and moving furtively about.  It was Netta, not usually such an early riser.  The curtains of her trim little bed and window were drawn aside to admit all the light that a September twilight could cast upon the chamber in which she had slept since her childhood.  A lovely bunch of monthly roses and some leaves of dark green ivy alone looked in upon her in the uncertain gloaming, as if imaging her present and future.  She was dressing herself hastily, but with care, in her very best attire.  She stood before the glass braiding and arranging her dark glossy hair, that luxuriant ornament of her bright, rosy face; then she put on the blossom white lace habit-shirt and striped pink and drab silk dress, her kind father’s last gift, and the smart shawl and pink bonnet were duly arranged afterwards.  Whatever the early visit Netta was about to make, it was evidently a premeditated one.  When the attire was quite complete, and she had surveyed herself in the glass, she suddenly paused and looked around her.  In a moment she was putting her room to rights, and pushing stray articles of dress into drawers, until all was quite