eside on it
and clear it he would be obliged to live in a very humdrum style, or
else add to the burden of debt already incurred. He preferred, remaining
in the army, and being a general favourite in society, and having no
near relations in Wales, it never occurred to him to spend his furloughs
in his native county. He had always some distant land to visit, and
either with his regiment or on leave had travelled nearly all over the
world.

His return was therefore an event of considerable interest to the
neighbourhood in which his place and property lay; and, doubtless, Mr
Gwynne was not the only person who wished Colonel Vaughan to settle at
Plas Abertewey.

When he was last at Glanyravon Park Mrs Gwynne was alive, Freda was a
child of eight, and Miss Hall a very elegant and pretty young woman. Mr
Gwynne Vaughan was then one of her numerous admirers; but there was
apparently no remnant of his early passion left, if you can judge of the
heart of a man, or his character at least, by his face or manner. Miss
Hall was much more confused when she suddenly met him than he was when
he first recognised her.

Freda had always had a pleasant recollection of him. He had been very
kind to her when she was a child, and an occasional letter to her
father, or the intelligence, through the papers, of his distinguishing
himself in India, or his gradual rise in the army, had kept alive a
certain amount of interest in her mind for this old friend.

She showed it at once, and delighted Colonel Vaughan by the perfectly
natural manner with which she welcomed him, and the frank heartiness of
her expressed wish that he should remain in the country now he had
returned to it.

'We have never had any one we cared for at Abertewey,' she said.
'Sometimes it was an English family who came to ruin themselves in
mining speculations; sometimes a sporting man who came for the hunting,
shooting, and fishing; and now, if you don't stay, I daresay it will be
a Manchester mill owner or some such person.'

'Much nearer home, I fancy; but I believe it is a kind of secret, only I
am so much like a woman that I cannot keep a secret. To my utter
astonishment I find it is to be a son of old Jenkins, the miser! I
remember the father, but the son was some years my junior. You need not
mention this, however, as it may fall to the ground. He wanted to buy
the place, but I am too patriotic still to wish to sell.'

'Howel Jenkins! little Netta! at Abertewey!'