she will never be happy
again.'

'Indeet to goodness, this is fullish! I shall go, Mrs Prothero. Good
morning.'

Just as Mrs Jenkins was making a kind of curtsey by the bedside Gladys
said that she saw Mr Prothero riding up to the house.

'Perhaps you had better make haste, Aunt 'Lizbeth,' said Owen, 'it would
not very well do for you and my father to meet.'

'I 'ont be running away from any man's house, Mr Owen. I do hope I'm as
good as your father any day.'

'Oh, pray make haste,' said Mrs Prothero, very much frightened.
'Good-bye, cousin. Forgive me if I have been rude? I beg your pardon.'

'This way, ma'am, if you please,' said Gladys, opening the door; but Mrs
Jenkins was smoothing down her silk dress, and arranging her bonnet in
the looking glass.

'Quite ready for another husband, aunt; but you had better make haste,
you don't know what you may come in for if you meet my father.'

'I am not caring neither,' said the little woman, sweeping across the
room and out at the door. At the top of the stair she met Mr Prothero,
face to face. The effect of her appearance upon that worthy man is not
to be described. She made a kind of curtsey and began to speak, but no
sooner did she see his face than she held her tongue. Neither did words
appear to come at the farmer's bidding, but very decided deeds did. He
took the alarmed Mrs Jenkins by the two shoulders, literally lifted her
from the ground, carried her downstairs a great deal faster than she
came up, helped her along the passage much in the same way, and with
something very nearly approaching a kick and an oath, turned her out of
doors, and shut the door behind her with so violent a bang that it
echoed through the house.

Owen ran down stairs to receive the first brunt of his passion, and to
prevent his going up to his mother. He allowed the words that came at
last to have way, and then took all the fault on himself; said that he
had admitted Mrs Jenkins to try to soothe his mother, and that she had
done so, he thought.

'Take you care, sir, how you let that 'ooman darken my doors again, or
any one belonging to her. It'll be worse for you than for them,' said Mr
Prothero, with a brow like a thunder cloud.

His wrath was interrupted by the sound of wheels, and to Owen's great
relief, he saw the head of his uncle's well known grey mare through the
window. He ran out to admit him and his aunt.

'We have just seen Mrs Jenkins, Owen,' began his aunt.

'Not