and then what would become of her prospects?" And
another lecture was prepared for Gwenda.

A few days after the accident which made her a prisoner, lying on the
sofa in the morning-room she had fallen into a deep reverie, which had
caused quite a pucker between her eyebrows. Being naturally a
romantic, sentimental girl, she mentally resented the sordid necessity
so continually urged by her aunts of making a "good match." It was in
Gwenda to cast all their prudent manoeuvres to the winds, and to follow
the bent of her own inclinations; but it was in her also to immolate
herself entirely upon the altar of an imagined duty. She chafed
somewhat at the want of freedom in her surroundings, her aunts
declaring it was incumbent upon her to please her uncle by marrying
well, and as soon as possible. And all these restrictions galled the
young lady, in whom the romantic dreams of the natural woman were
calling loudly for fulfilment. Perhaps these feelings would account
for the little look of worry and discontent in her face on the Sunday
morning while her uncle lingered round her sofa.

"Well, I'm sorry to leave you alone, Gwenda; but here are the
magazines, and I'll soon be back. I don't like the Nantmyny pew to be
empty, you know. Good-bye."

When the sounds of the carriage-wheels had died away, Gwenda took up
one of the magazines and turned over the pages listlessly. She sighed
a little wearily, and fell asleep--a sleep which lasted until her uncle
returned from church, and came blustering into the room.

"Well, pommy word, child, I think you have had the best of it this
morning. Price the vicar didn't preach. Some Jones of Llan something,
and you never heard such a rhodomontade in your life; but I went to
sleep and escaped the worst of it--all about mortar, give you my word
for it, Gwenda, and about not putting enough cowhair in the mortar."

"Really!" she said, yawning. "No wonder you went to sleep. Were the
Williamses there?"

"Yes, and the Griffiths of Plasdu, and the Henry Reeses, and Captain
Scott is staying with them. Well, I'm going to have a smoke." But at
the door he turned round with a fresh bit of news. "Oh, what d'ye
think, Gwenda? A young man stood up to read the lessons, and I
couldn't for the life of me remember where I'd seen him before, and I
bothered my brains about it all through the sermon till I fell asleep.
After service I asked Price the vicar, and who should he be but that
you