neat; then she paused again, and glanced at a letter that was lying on her little dressing-table.  Turning hastily away from this she opened the window and looked out.  The sun had not yet arisen, though there was a streak of light, forerunner of his advent, on the horizon.  Mountains, rivers, fields, and woods were all wrapped in a cold, grey mist, but still it was not dark.  Netta tore the bunch of roses from the bough and put them in her bosom, then re-closed the window.  She took up a large shawl that was lying on a chair, and a small package from underneath and dexterously arranged the shawl so as to fall over the parcel, as she held both in her hand and on her arm.  Again she paused a moment and glanced around her.  Her face was flushed, and there was moisture in her dark eye.

Oh, pause a little longer and consider, poor Netta!  But no.  The sudden flash of sunlight into the room terrifies the thoughtless child, and she goes hastily into the passage.  Quietly she closes her door; stealthily she creeps along.  She makes no sound as she steals, like a thief, through the house where she was born some eighteen summers ago.  Before one closed door she pauses again—­listens.  She can hear the breath of the sleepers within.  She is on her knees, and represses with difficulty a rising sob, ‘Mother! mother! forgive me!  God bless you!’ she whispers, as she once more rises and runs down the remainder of the passage—­downstairs—­through the hall—­through the parlour, and out by the little glass door into the garden.  In spite of her tears, haste, agitation she cannot pass that bed of carnations—­her mother’s treasure—­without stopping to gather one fresh and dripping with the air and dews of night.  Innocent flowers! they will see her mother that very day; but what of the stray, wandering rose of Glanyravon?  Through the garden, and out by the little wicket into the lane; across a field sparkling with dewdrops; over a stile; down another lane; over another stile, and into another field!  Here she pauses and glances round.  A dark figure at the opposite side of the field seems to assure her that all is well.  She runs quickly across the meadow, and within it, under shelter of the hedge, near a half-open gate, stands Mrs Griffith Jenkins.

‘Where is Howel?’ asks Netta hastily.

’He did write yesterday to say he ’ould bring the carriage from Swansea to meet us at Tynewydd, and he was sure to be there by six o’clock,’

’Let us make haste then, Aunt ’Lisbeth.  Why didn’t he come here himself?  I have a great mind to turn back.’

‘Come you, Netta, fach! we’ll soon be there.  See you the letter?’

‘Not now—­not now,’ cries Netta impatiently, walking along the high road as fast as she possibly can.  Mrs Jenkins keeps up with her, but is soon out of breath.

’There’s Jack Trefortyn; he’ll be sure to tell.  Aunt ’Lisbeth, I will turn back.  Father will be after me.  It is too bad,’ sobs Netta.