reader, in Gladys' own words.

'My father left my mother in Ireland, and went with his regiment to
India. My mother lived with my grandfather, who was old and infirm, but
still managed a small farm, in which my mother assisted. He died, and
then my mother kept a school, took in needlework, and did what she could
to help out my father's remittances, which were small, but regular. He
was severely wounded in the head, and got his discharge upon his
corporal's pay. Being a clever man, he soon procured work, as a kind of
under-agent, and we lived very happily together for some years. He was
never a saving man, so what he earned he spent, and my poor mother spent
it with him. I had two brothers and three sisters, and when my father
died, rather suddenly, we had nothing but our own exertions to depend
upon. My mother and I managed to live and keep the children--how, I
scarcely know--till the famine from the failure of the potato crop, and
consequent fever and starvation came upon us. God preserve me, and every
one else, from witnessing such misery again! One child died after
another, and then the darling mother! I had nothing to give her;
literally nothing. Every one round us was in the same state. On her
death-bed she was rambling and incoherent, but talked of Wales, and her
father and brother.

'"Go to them, Gladys," she said, "when I am gone. Maybe they'll take to
ye." "Where, mother dear!" I asked. But she did not hear me. Thank God!
she clasped her hands and prayed for pardon of her sins through Jesus
Christ; and so she died. I don't know how I lived after her--how I
buried her--how I came into Wales. I scarcely remember anything, till I
awoke from that illness in calm, clean, beautiful Glanyravon; with my
mistress's blessed face looking down upon me, and Miss Gwynne waiting on
me, and Mr Rowland praying for me.'

For some years past Gladys had succeeded in obtaining a calm and even
spirit, by striving to banish these dreadful scenes from her mind, by
active labours for others, and abnegation of self. Now, they opened once
more the flood-gates of memory, and as the old recollections rushed
through, like repressed waters, her strength of mind gave way, and she
could do nothing but weep.

'Only to-night--forgive me!' she sobbed. 'I shall be better to-morrow.
But it all comes back, all; even in the moment of my great happiness.'

Her kind friends soothed and comforted her--her uncle wept with her, and
by degrees she on