now.
She's too young, and Howel isn't the lad to study her.'

'Oh! but you can't be knowing, David Prothero, how study he is since his
poor father's death.'

'Then let him wait two years, and if he is downright well-conducted,
then he may have Netta.'

'Upon my deet! he as can be marrying Miss Rice Rice or any young lady in
the country! Mighty condescent, Mr Prothero!'

'Let him marry 'em all, I don't want him.'

'Then you won't let Netta marry my Howels?'

'If he's study in two years, and they are both in the same mind, they
may marry, and be hanged to 'em! I never was so bothered in my life.
But, between ourselves, I think it's just as likely your son Howel 'ould
be study in two years as my son Owen.'

'Oh, name o' goodness, we don't want Miss Netta! No 'casion to be
waiting!'

'Then don't wait, 'ooman! Who wants you to wait?'

Mrs Jenkins hurried back into the house, and left Mr Prothero with his
cattle.

'I must be going now, Mrs Prothero--my son Howels too! Thousands and
thousands of pounds. Netta, come you upstairs, my dear, whilst I am
putting on my bonnet.'

Mrs Prothero was not duenna enough to accompany them upstairs, and
consequently Netta gave a note to Mrs Jenkins, cried a little, and
helped her to abuse her parents.

'Never you mind, Netta, fach,' were the last words, 'Howels don't be
meaning to give you up.'

'Good evening, ma'am; good evening, Mr Owen,' said Mrs Jenkins, as she
made the attempt at a curtsey, that caused Owen to show his white teeth
again.

'Oh dear, dear! what will be the end of it?' said Mrs Prothero to Owen
as Netta sulked upstairs. 'I wish Rowland was at home.'

'Very complimentary to your eldest son!' said Owen, laughing.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE MILLIONAIRE.

Nearly a twelvemonth passed, and an autumn morning again hovered over
Glanyravon Farm. It would seem that all the inmates of the homestead
were sleeping; but there was one already awake and moving furtively
about. It was Netta, not usually such an early riser. The curtains of
her trim little bed and window were drawn aside to admit all the light
that a September twilight could cast upon the chamber in which she had
slept since her childhood. A lovely bunch of monthly roses and some
leaves of dark green ivy alone looked in upon her in the uncertain
gloaming, as if imaging her present and future. She was dressing herself
hastily, but with care, in her very best attire. She stood before the
glass br