red with figures, containing accounts of ragged schools,
which she is labouring to reckon up, in the simplest of morning dresses,
without ornament or extraneous adornment. She is somewhat paler and
thinner than she used to be amongst the breezy hills of Wales, but her
eyes are brighter, and the expression of her countenance is gentler.

'How stupid I am!' she exclaims. 'Gladys would reckon them up directly,
but she is at the school, and I am ashamed to ask Nita, with all her
accounts.'

She pauses a moment and lays down her pen. Her eyes fall upon an
unopened letter.

'And I declare I have not broken the seal of my own father's letter,'
she mutters, performing this duty as she does so, and running through it
with occasional comments.

'"We hope you will come and spend Christmas--" I suppose I must--"and
see your little brother, who longs to see sister Freda again--" Humph!
but who cut her out of Glanyravon Park and all thereto belonging, though
he certainly is a dear little man. "Her ladyship quite well, and desires
her love." I suppose I ought to be glad and try to return the love. "Mrs
Gwynne Vaughan and her children were here yesterday. She asked for you,
and the little ones wished to know when you were coming home--" I am
much obliged to her, and am afraid I am _not_ too anxious to see either
her or her husband, in spite of their civility. "Little Harold is really
a wonderful child! He begins to spell already!" So like my good father.
Well, I ought to be thankful he is happy, and that it all turned out so
much better than I expected. But I can't help feeling a kind of wicked
disappointment when I think that Lady Mary should be quite as good a
tactician as a second wife, as she was before she married again. But, I
hope, I am happy that she makes poor papa comfortable and doesn't worry
him to death. I don't think he loves her now half as well as he does me;
still, perhaps she suits him better, because she manages him, and I
never could. But the _tyfydd_ [Footnote: Welsh for heir.] is a dear
little fellow, and I am really fond of him.'

Miss Gwynne's soliloquy is cut short by a rap at the door, followed by
the entrance of Rowland Prothero, who says, as he bows and seems about
to retreat,--

'I beg your pardon--I was told Mr Jones was here.'

'Oh, do come in!' says Miss Gwynne, rising, and advancing to meet
Rowland; 'I cannot get through these accounts. I have been reckoning and
reckoning ever since breakfast, a