ar passed between us. He was very
kind, sir.'

'I daresay. But what made him go away?'

'I think it must have been because he thought you would send me away.'

'And you don't want to marry my son Owen?'

'No, sir.'

Gladys' voice wavered slightly as she said this.

'Ha, ha! He's a fine young man, however.'

'Yes, sir, and very kind.'

'I daresay. Will you promise never to marry him?'

As Mr Prothero asked this question, he looked Gladys full in the face.

She blushed again, but returned his gaze with a quiet, grave look that
seemed to wonder at the question. She did not reply at once, and Mr
Prothero repeated it, louder than before, with the additional one of 'Do
you hear, girl?'

'Sir, I don't like to make promises,' said Gladys; 'suppose the
temptation to break it ever came, and proved too strong for me. I might
perjure myself.'

'Then you mean to marry my son Owen?'

'No, sir, I don't think I shall ever marry him. As far as I can see now,
I am sure I never shall.'

'Name o' goodness, what does the girl mean? You don't mean to marry him,
and yet you 'ont promise--what do you mean?'

'I scarcely know myself, sir. But I cannot tell what God may appoint for
me in the future, and so I cannot make a solemn promise.'

'Then I 'spose you're going to run off like Netta?'

'No, sir, never.'

'Why, "no, sir," if you 'ont promise?'

'Because I could never do what you and my mistress would dislike.'

'Then you can promise, perhaps, never to marry my son Owen without my
consent.'

'Yes, sir, I can--do--that--'

Gladys said these words very slowly, and turned very pale as she said
them. She clasped her hands firmly together with a visible effort.

'Well, you're an odd girl; you 'ont promise one thing, and yet you as
good as promise it in another way. What's the difference?'

Again the colour came and went.

'It would be wrong, sir, in me to make a son disobey a father, and I
wouldn't like to do it; so I can promise that; and maybe you may
change.'

'Then you love the boy? Tell me the treuth.'

Gladys began to cry, and was a few moments before she could say,
somewhat more resolutely than usual,--

'Sir, my feelings are my own. Mr Owen has been like a brother to me, and
the mistress like a mother--and you--oh, sir! should I not love his
mother's son?'

Mr Prothero was touched; he could ask no more questions.

'There, there--go you and get ready directly. I promised Miss Gwynne to
bring you bac