irts for Owen, father,' replied the wife meekly,
dreading an outburst.

Gladys took up the coat and was instantly engaged in mending it, whilst
Mr Prothero produced a letter just received from Rowland.

'There, my dear, now you ought to be satisfied, and I am sure Mrs
Jonathan will be as proud as Punch. Rowland has been ordained by the
Bishop of London himself, and "passed a very good examination," or
whatever they call it. He has taken lodgings up in London, and preached
his first sermon in a great church that 'ould hold three of ours. He has
dined with the rector, and been to call on Sir Philip Payne Perry,--the
three green peas as Owen calls him--and I wonder what even Mrs Jonathan
'ould desire more?'

Mrs Prothero read, her dear son's letter with tears in her eyes, the
sudden sight of which caused sympathetic tears to flow from the eyes of
the poor work-girl, much to the surprise of Mr Prothero, who chanced to
look round to see whether his coat was finished.

'Hang the 'oomen,' he muttered to himself, 'they can't read a bit of a
letter without blubbing. How long will that take you to do?--what's your
name?'

'Gladys, if you please, sir,' said Gladys, looking up from her work. 'I
shall have finished it directly, sir.'

'Gladys? Gladys what?' asked Mr Prothero.

'Gladys O'Grady, sir,' was the reply whilst the mending was coming to a
close.

'Where on earth did you pick up such names as that?'

'One was my mother's, and the other my father's, sir,' said Gladys,
rising and presenting the coat with a deep curtsey.

Mrs Prothero was absorbed in her letter.

'Name o' goodness where did your father get such a name? and where do
you live?'

The girl bent her head over the coat she held in her hand, and her tears
fell upon it.

'There, never mind? give me my coat. Thank you. Why, Lewis the tailor
'ouldn't 'a mended it better. Why, girl, where did you learn tailoring?'

'Mother taught me to mend everything, sir.'

'There then, take you that old hat and see if you can make as good a job
of sewing on the brim as you done of the coat. Mother, come you here, I
want to speak to you.'

Mr Prothero left the room, and Mrs Prothero followed.

'Who's that girl, mother? I never saw her before,' were his first words
in the passage, whilst pulling to the coat that he had begun to put on
in the work-room.

'Why, David, you see--it is--there now, don't be angry.'

'Angry! what for? Hasn't she mended my coat capital,