‘Oh, father! father, Netta!’ he exclaimed.

‘Never mind her; think of your mother, ten thousand times as precious.’

At last Gladys succeeded in restoring Mrs Prothero to consciousness and when she found herself in her husband’s arms, with Owen bending over her, she burst into a flood of hysterical tears, which partially relieved her.

‘Oh, Netta!  Netta!’ was all she could say, when they asked her what was the matter.

‘Never mind her, mother, but get better,’ said Mr Prothero, his usually rosy face almost as pale as his wife’s.

‘If you please, sir, we will lay her on the bed,’ said Gladys.

‘Not here—­not here,’ gasped Mrs Prothero.

They took her to her own room, and Gladys said,—­’Perhaps, sir, if you would leave her to me a little I could get her into bed, I am used to illness.’

Mr Prothero looked at the girl, and saw her eyes full of tears, but her face was calm and pale, and seemed to indicate a self-possession that no one else present had.

‘I will come back again soon, mother,’ he said as he left the room, followed by Owen.

When they were gone, Mrs Prothero gave way to an uncontrollable grief, and threw herself upon the neck of the girl Gladys.

‘What will he say? what will he do when he knows it all?’ she sobbed.

’If you only hope and pray, ma’am, perhaps all will be right that troubles you now,’ faltered Gladys.

‘My only girl! to be so wilful, so disobedient!’

‘May I ask what has happened to Miss Netta?’

’She has run away with her cousin, and her father will never forgive her—­never!’

’Ah! that was what my poor mother did; but she was happy with my father; and Mr Jenkins is rich and kind.  Take comfort, ma’am, it may not be so very bad.’

Gladys managed to get Mrs Prothero into bed, who, happily, did not see the effect produced by Netta’s letter on her husband.  Whilst she was shedding quiet tears on her pillow, he was raging with furious passion to his son.  Over and over again did he comment on every word of the letter, sometimes with keen irony, sometimes with a burst of rage, until Owen endeavoured to suggest pursuit.

’Go after her! the ungrateful, disobedient, good-for-nothing hussey!  No, not if she were stopping a mile off instead of whirling away in her grand coach and four nobody knows where.  Let her go, the impertinent baggage!  “Father ’ont consent! father was very cross! father had better let us marry! he will be sorry when he sees how grand and happy I am! father called me bad names!” I wish I had called her worse! she deserves every name that was ever written!’

‘But, perhaps,’ suggests Owen, ’she will be happy, and Howel will be steady.’

’Steady! hold your tongue and don’t be a fool!  Make a drunkard steady! make a bad son steady! make a gambler steady! make a horse-racer steady! make—­make—­make—­hold your tongue, sir:  don’t say a word for the ungrateful girl—­never mention her name to me again—­I never wish to see her face more as long as I live—­I—­I—­I—­’