s, rising from her seat, and walking up and down, apparently in
great wrath. 'What you think of my Howels and your Netta at Abertewey:
And you to be all toalking as if we wos ail dirt. And they in France,
over the sea, where I 'ould be going with them only I am so 'fraid of
the water.'

'There's a loss it would be, Aunt 'Lizbeth, if anything had happened to
you! Suppose a shark had swallowed you up! gold watch, mourning ring,
silk gown, brooch, and all? Those creatures aren't particular. But we
haven't had all Netta's message yet.'

'She was sending her kind love and duty to you, cousin, and was saying
she was sorry to be leaving you, but my Howels was so kind as you, and
she was as happy as could be.'

'Did she cry, cousin? did she shed one tear?' asked Mrs Prothero,
sitting up in bed, and looking at Mrs Jenkins with a quick, wild eye,
quite unlike her usual quiet glance.

'You needn't be looking at me so fierce, cousin, I didn't be killing
Netta. Is seure--she did cry enough, if that's a pleasure to you. She
was crying when she was meeting my Howels; she was crying when she was
putting on her wedding gown; she was crying when the parson was
preaching that sermon, and when the thunder and lightning did frighten
her, seure, and no wonder--'

'Did it thunder and lighten when they were married? 'asked Mrs Prothero,
through her sobs.

'Yes, indeet! I thoate I should be struck myself; but she was soon
forgetting it at breakfast; they do call it breakfast, you see, but I
never was seeing a grander dinner. Chickens, and tongue, and ham, and
meats, and cakes, and jellies, and fruit, and wines, all froathing up
like new milk, some sort of _pain_ they was calling it; but I never did
be seeing such good _pain_ or tasting it before, he! he!'

'I don't care about the dress or the dinner, or the grand people,
cousin,' said Mrs Prothero, 'I pray God to forgive Howel for making our
only girl run away from us like a thief in the night; and I would rather
hear she cried for us whom she treated so badly, than that she was
dressed in velvet and jewels. All those fine people and fine things
won't make her happy, and her father will never forgive her, never. Oh
dear! oh dear!'

'What will I tell her, Mrs Prothero, when I do write to my son Howels?'

'Tell her--tell her that my heart is breaking; but I forgive her. Beg
her not to forget her parents, and, above all, not to forget her God.
Poor child! poor silly, thoughtless child,