s foot on the floor, and instantaneously swelling
with passion. 'As if it wasn't enough to have paupers, and poor-rates,
and sick and dying, bothering one all day long, without your bringing an
Irish beggar into the house. I never saw such an 'ooman as your mother
in my life; she's never quiet a minute. I 'ont stand it any longer; now
'tis a subscription for this, now a donation for that, then sixpence for
Jack such a one, or a shilling for Sal the other, till I have neither
peace nor money. Come you, sir, go and turn that vagabond out directly,
or I'll do it before your mother comes home, hark'ee, sir.'

'I can't father, really.'

'Then I will.'

Off stalked the farmer in his passion, crying out in the passage,
'Shanno, come here!'

A servant girl quickly answered the summons.

'Where's that Irish vagabond?'

'In Mr Owen's room, sir.'

Upstairs went the farmer, leaving Shanno grinning and saying, 'He, he,
he'll do be turning her out very soon, she will, he, he.'

Rowland ran upstairs after his father, calling out gently, 'Stop,
father, Miss Gwynne--' but the father was in the bedroom before he heard
the words, and had made the house re-echo the noise of his opening the
door.

He was instantaneously checked in his career by seeing Miss Gwynne
advance towards him, with her finger in the air.

'Hush, Mr Prothero,' she whispered, 'she is asleep. Look here; gently,
very gently.'

She led the enraged farmer by one of his large brass buttons to the
bedside, where the white-faced Gladys lay. She looked so much like a
corpse, that he started back affrighted. Then Miss Gwynne led him out
into the passage, and seeing from his angry face the state of the case,
instantly said,--

'It was I who had her brought here, Mr Prothero; and by-and-by I will
get her sent back to her parish, but until she is better we must take
care of her.'

At these words from the all-powerful Miss Gwynne, Mr Prothero was fain
to put such check upon his rising choler as the shortness of the notice
would allow. He could not, however, fully restrain the whole of the
invective that had been upon his lips a short time before.

'No offence, Miss Gwynne? but 'pon my soul, I'm sick to death of my
missus's pensioners and paupers, and I'm determined to have no more of
'em. You may do as you please, miss, at your own house, and I'll do as I
please in mine.'

Here Rowland popped his head out of a neighbouring bedroom

'Father, Miss Gwynne is taki