eople, but you're always finding
fault with me.'

The conversation was interrupted by a loud knocking at the house door,
and Farmer Prothero's voice was heard without, calling,--

'Mother, mother, where are you? Here we are, all come!'

Netta flew to open the door, and was soon industriously kissing a lady
and gentleman, who had just alighted from a little four-wheeled
carriage, and were waiting, with her father, for admission. Rowland,
also, in his turn, duly embraced the lady, who seemed much pleased to
see him. They brought in various packages, and proceeded to the parlour.

'Where's mother, Netta?' exclaimed Mr Prothero.

Rowland answered for her.

'She is gone to Mrs Griffey Jenkins, father; perhaps you have not heard
that Uncle Griff is dead.'

'Not I, indeed. Well! he's as good out of the world as in, though I'm
sorry for the old fellow. But what'll we do without mother? She's always
nursing somebody or other, either alive or dead.'

Rowland turned to his aunt, and said that his mother begged him to
apologise for her necessary absence for a few hours.

'I shall do very well, I daresay,' said the aunt, whose countenance wore
a somewhat austere expression.

She was a lady of middle age, who prided herself upon having a first
cousin a baronet. Her father, a clergyman, rector of a good English
living, was the younger son of Sir Philip Payne Perry, and she an only
child, was his heiress. Mr Jonathan Prothero had been, in years gone by,
his curate, and had succeeded in gaining the affections, as well as
fortune, of the daughter, and in bringing both into his native country.
He had the living of Llanfach, in which parish Glanyravon was situated,
and lived in very good style in a pretty house that he had built
something in the style of an English vicarage.

Mrs Jonathan Prothero, or Mrs Prothero, the Vicarage, as she was usually
called, was tall and thin, very fashionably dressed, with a very long
face, a very long nose, very keen greenish grey eyes, a very elaborately
curled front, a very long neck, very thin lips, and very dainty manners.
She was proud of her feet and hands, which were always well shod,
stockinged, gloved, and ringed, and as these were the only pretty points
about her, we cannot wonder at her taking care of them. People used to
say she would have been an old maid, had not a certain auspicious day
taken the Rev. Jonathan Prothero to her father's parish, who, having an
eye after the fashion