ero.'

'Thank you, Miss Gwynne, I will tell Rowland; but I really think Netta
had better not go.'

'I have just told her of the invitation.'

'Dear me! I am really very sorry. I beg your pardon, Miss Gwynne, but it
will put ideas into her head above her station.'

'We shall be very quiet.'

The conversation was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Rowland. He
drew back on seeing Miss Gwynne, and bowed, as usual, profoundly. She
also, as usual, advanced and held out her hand.

'My father begged me to ask if you would come and dine with us on
Wednesday,' said Miss Gwynne.

'Thank you, I am much obliged,' stammered Rowland, whilst a bright Hush
overspread his face, 'I shall be very happy, if I am not obliged to be
elsewhere. Mother, poor Griffith Jenkins is dead. I have been there all
the night.'

'Dead! I had no idea he was so ill! Oh, Rowland, how did he die?'

'Just as he lived, mother. With the key of his coffers so tightly
clasped in one hand that it was impossible to take it from it after he
was dead. And the said coffers hidden, nobody knows where. But poor Mrs
Jenkins has no friend near who can be of any real comfort to her. I wish
you could go to her for a few hours.'

'This poor girl, Rowland--what can I do with her? And your uncle and
aunt coming.'

'I think I can manage my uncle and aunt till your return. As to the poor
girl I really know not what to say.'

'Oh! if you will trust her to me, Mrs Prothero, I will nurse her till
you come back!' exclaimed Miss Gwynne eagerly. 'I assure you I can
manage capitally, and will send back the horses, and a message to papa.'

'I am afraid it would not be right--I think the girl has low fever--Mr
Gwynne would object.'

'I assure you it would be quite right, and I don't fear infection and
papa would let me do just as I like. In short, I mean to stay, and you
must go directly. Is young Jenkins at home, Mr Rowland?'

'Yes, he returned a few hours before his father's death.'

'I suppose that horrid old man died as rich as Croesus, and, according
to custom in such cases, his son will spend the money.'

'I wish he had not got it,' said Mrs Prothero.

'That is scarcely a fair wish, mother. Let us hope that he will do well
with it.'

'Never, never. He was not born or bred in a way to make him turn out
well.'

'Nothing is impossible, mother.'

'You must take care of Netta, Mrs Prothero. But now do go to that
wretched Mrs Jenkins, and leave the poor girl