s a very superior woman, my love, and understands etiquette, and
all that sort of thing, better than any one I ever met.'

'She seems to me to understand her own interests, papa, as well as most
people. But I will tell her that Sir Hugh and the Protheros are coming,
and that we have asked Netta, so she can accept or decline as she
likes.'

'Do you think it wise, my dear, to put yourself so much on a level with
Miss Prothero, as to invite her?'

'Oh! she understands how we are very well. It will be a source of pride
and satisfaction to her, without making her presume more than before;
and the vicar and his lady will like the attention.'

'I dread the vicar. His genealogies are too much for me.'

'Oh, I can put up with the vicar's antiquities, but not with the young
vicar's pedantic Oxonianism. He does think so well of himself, and quite
rules every one at home.'

'Oh! that is very fatiguing, I should think.'

'I wish he would fall in love with Miss Nugent, and she with him, and
carry off her forty-thousand pounds. She is silly enough for anything,
and it would be such a downfall to her mother's pride.'

'Her mother is much too careful, my dear, and by far too superior a
woman. And Miss Wilhelmina is very accomplished and all that sort of
thing, you know, and likely to make a fine match. She is very pretty,
too.'

'Yes; she and Netta Prothero would run in harness. Pretty, silly, rather
affected, and having drawn each four or five drawings, and learnt six
tunes on the piano. Only the one is more fashionable than the other. Do
you know, papa, Miss Nugent can play the Irish and Scotch quadrilles,
and Netta '_Ar hydy Nos,_' with small variations. We will have a
concert; you know I have asked the Rice Rices?'

'Very well, my dear. Now I think I will read a sermon to the servants,
so just ring the bell.'

CHAPTER IV.

THE MISER.

Whilst Mr Gwynne is reading his sermon, and Mrs Prothero is nursing the
mendicant Gladys, an event is passing in the neighbouring country-town,
involving matters of interest to her, and those belonging to her. In a
small bedroom over a little huckster's shop, an old man lies dangerously
ill. By his side is seated a middle-aged woman watching. In a dark
corner, behind the bed, stands a man, who is so deep in shadow that you
scarcely know whether he is young or old.

The room is small and shabby, and contains apparently few comforts for
one nearly approaching his last hour.