t you would make me the happiest man in the
world?'

'I would try, Mr Owen.'

'Nothing but his consent?

'Nothing, Mr Owen. If you do not change, I cannot.

'Gladys, do not trifle with me. But you could not trifle. Have you cared
for me--may I say loved me--all these years?'

'All these years.'

Gladys bowed her head as if in shame over those clasped hands, and a
large tear fell upon Owen's. He wanted no other confirmation of her
words, and felt, as he had expressed it, the happiest man in the world.

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER.

It was nine o'clock when the fly that took the travellers from Swansea
to Glanyravon reached the door of the farm. The night was 'dark and
dreary;' very different was the weather, the aspect of external nature;
very different were Netta's feelings and all the circumstances, when she
was at home ten years ago. She had been thinking again on all these
things during that gloomy drive, when her companions thought she was
asleep.

Bright lights are in the windows and passage as the travellers look out
of the carriage. Mrs Prothero's anxious face is visible in front, Mr and
Mrs Jonathan's tall forms above her from behind, the servants are
without, Lion is barking joyously, but there is no Mr Prothero.

'Is this Glanyravon, mamma?' asks Minette waking up and rubbing her
eyes.

No answer.

Owen jumps out, and without stopping to greet his pale, trembling
mother, turns to help Netta, who cannot help herself. He carries a dead
weight into the parlour, and lays it on the sofa. Netta has fainted.

Gladys is at her side in a moment with every kind of restorative but no
one notices or thinks of her. Mrs Prothero is on her knees rubbing her
child's cold hands, and looking as white as the corpse-like daughter
thus restored to her. Mr and Mrs Jonathan look at one another, and then
at Netta, with a glance of pity and grief.

There is another face for one moment bent over the sofa, and the next a
loud heavy groan is heard in the corner of the room that comes from a
heart in extreme agony; but no one, save Minette, seems conscious of
it. She turns affrighted at the sound, and in the impulse of her quick,
warm nature runs to comfort.

'Mamma will be better soon,' she says; 'she is often so. Don't cry so
loud, you will frighten her.'

Poor Mr Prothero removes his hand from his eyes to behold, for the first
time, his grandchild. Another heavy groan, almost a cry, and he ta