With a very becoming grace, she advanced and held out her hand to Mr
Rowland Prothero, eldest son of the good farmer and his wife, just
returned from Oxford. Mr Rowland slightly touched the hand, bowed again
gravely, and placed a chair for Miss Gwynne.

'I thought I should never come here again,' said that young lady,
turning from Mr Rowland with a nod and a 'thank you,' and retreating
towards the window where the mother and daughter were standing, 'what
with the rain, and poor papa's nervous complaints, and all the affairs,
I declare I have been as busy as possible.'

'Now, Miss Gwynne, I am sure you will agree with me,' cried Netta,
suddenly brightening up and getting animated 'Do you think it right to
encourage those Irish beggars?'

'Right! no, of course I don't.'

'And do you think people ought to allow them to come into the house--to
take them in, and to--to shelter them in short?'

'Decidedly not. I hope you don't do such things, Mrs Prothero?'

There was a wicked twinkle in a merry eye as this was said.

'The truth is, Miss Gwynne,' said Mrs Prothero, slowly rubbing her hands
one over another, 'there is a poor Irish girl in the barn almost dying,
and it is impossible to send her to the Union to-night, or to leave her
where she is.'

'Oh, I'll write an order for the Union in papa's name. You can't believe