and isn't she as
modest looking a young 'ooman as I ever saw?'

'She is very delicate, but she works night and day. Indeed, she does
more in a day than most girls in a week Owen wanted some shirts, you
see--she made that cap you admired so much, and that new gown of
Netta's; and has more than paid for--'

'But who the deuce is she?'

'There now, don't be angry, David. 'Tis that poor Irish girl that was so
ill of the fever.'

'I'll never believe she's Irish as long as I live--she's too pretty and
tidy and delicate and fair. She's no more Irish than I am, mother, and
you've been taken in.'

'She is Welsh on the mother's side. But are you very angry, David?'

'No, I don't mind her doing a little work in an honest way like that.
I'm not such a fool. When she has done the work send her off, that's
all. Poor soul! she does look as if she had been dead and buried and
come to life again. Mother, you're a good 'ooman, and God bless you!'

Mrs Prothero looked up into her husband's face with an expression of
such love and joy as must have delighted a much harder heart than that
spouse possessed. Don't laugh, gentle reader, at the conjugal embrace of
that middle-aged pair, which seals the quarrel about the Irish girl; but
believe me, there is more real sentiment in it than in most of the
love-scenes you may have read about.

Mrs Prothero took advantage of her husband's approval of Gladys's
exterior to send her out into the garden in the evening to breathe the
air, and afterwards into the fields. The girl's strength gradually
returned, but with it there appeared to be no return of youth or hope. A
settled melancholy was in her countenance and demeanour; and when Netta
rallied her on being so sad and silent, her reply was, 'Oh, miss, there
is no more joy or happiness for me in this world! all I love have left
it, and I am but a lonely wanderer and an outcast!'

When the shirts were finished, it was time to think of her departure,
for she had exhausted all the sewing-work of the house. Mrs Prothero
could not bear to turn the friendless, homeless girl adrift on the
world. She ventured upon the subject one day at dinner.

'What will become of her, David? And she so beautiful! I declare I think
I never saw a prettier girl.'

'Well, mother, who will you call pretty next?' said Owen, who had seen
her once or twice by chance. 'Why, she has no more colour in her face
than this tablecloth, and I don't believe she has any eyes at