say, Howel shall marry her--who ever doubted that? but I'll never set
eyes on her again as long as I live, I 'ont.'

Whilst Mr Prothero was speaking, Gladys, who had been waiting upon Mrs
Prothero until that moment, slipped out of the room, and ran in search
of Owen. She found him amongst servants making inquiries.

'Mr Owen, may I speak with you if you please.'

Owen followed her into the hall.

'Oh! sir, if you would go after Miss Netta, now that the master is
willing, at once; may be you will save your mother's life. If she goes
on this way, she will surely be very ill.'

'What use would it be for me to go after her? The cow-boy saw her pass
at about five this morning, and she is at Swansea by this time. My
father ought to have let 'em marry, and get on together like other young
couples.'

'But, Mr Owen, the mistress is afraid--she wants to be sure--she would
be happier, sir, if some one could see them married!'

'Oh! that's the way the wind blows! You may tell mother that I'll try to
track them--but it won't be of any use. At any rate it will calm her to
think we are making the attempt. You write to my brother Rowland,
Gladys, and tell him of this affair; but the truth is, we must make the
best of it. They are off to London to be married, and 'tis no good to
try to look for 'em there.'

Here Shanno entered.

'Mr Owen, Mr Jones, Tenewydd, did tell Mr Thomas, Trefortyn, who did
tell John, blacksmith, who did tell Betto, that he saw Miss Netta and
Mrs Jenkins, tallow-chandler, this morning about six o'clock, and they
did get into a carriage by there.'

'Go and tell mother that Aunt Jenkins was with Netta, Gladys, and I'll
go and see whether Mr Jones really saw her or not.'

Gladys returned to her mistress, who had become more quiet, and was
trying to persuade Mr Prothero to go after the fugitives.

'Mr Owen is gone, ma'am,' said Gladys, 'and Mr Jones, of Tynewydd, saw
Miss Netta this morning with Mrs Griffith Jenkins, and they got into a
carriage together.'

'Thank God that 'Lizbeth was with her,' said Mrs Prothero.

'The deceitful, pompous old vagabond,' thundered Mr Prothero. 'She to
connive and contrive! fit mother for such a son. They 'ont come to no
good end. No, mother, I can't, nor I 'ont go after 'em; Netta has made
her own bed, and she must lie on it.'

'Mr Owen is gone, ma'am,' whispered Gladys. 'Try to take comfort; there
is One who can make all our rough ways straight, and will bring poor