s in shadow, but the large, bright black eyes beam
upon Gladys, with preternatural lustre, and the raven hair shines
against the white pillow that supports her head. The broad, massive
figure of the father, in its rough work-a-day clothes, is also in
shadow. One elbow rests upon the arm of Netta's sofa, one hand smooths
mechanically the head of his grandchild, resting against his knee. This
large hand and that tender head come within the glow of the fire-light.
His grey head is lifted towards Gladys, on whom his keen black eyes, so
like Netta's, are also fixed. Minette, too, sitting at his feet, gazes
with child-like wonder on Gladys; her long black curls falling over her
pale face. Grandsire, daughter, child, so like one another, and yet so
far apart in age. Three types they are of the ancient Briton.

Opposite this trio, with her left hand clasped in that of Netta, and
close to her sofa, stands the fair, blue-eyed, graceful Gladys;
thoroughly Irish in beauty, if Welsh in heart. The red glare of the
large bright fire brings out her sweet, earnest face, and slight form.
Her eyes are cast down, as if they cannot support the gaze of so many
other eyes, and her cheeks are flushed with a strange excitement.
Towering a full head above her, his arm round her waist, the thick black
beard touching her hair is the manly, handsome Owen. Love, joy, pride,
in his honest black eyes, and health on his bronzed and ruddy cheeks.
Seated on the sofa, her arms on Netta's knees, her head, with its silver
hair, and plain white lace cap, eagerly pressed forward, is the
well-beloved mother. For the first time since Netta's return, grief for
the one child, has merged into joy for the other, and prayer and praise
for all are in her heart even whilst she listens.

The story is told, Gladys raises her eyes and head somewhat proudly for
her. Owen lowers his, and kisses the pure, white forehead. There is
silence for a few moments, no one can speak for tears. Owen is the
first.

'Well, father! all's right now, at any rate.'

'Treue for you there, Owen, my boy. The only objection is removed;
everybody will know now that Gladys was honest, God bless you both, and
make you happy.'

At this moment there was a suppressed sob from Netta. Her mind had
wandered from the open, straightforward betrothal of Owen and Gladys,
crowned, after years of difficulty, with a father's and mother's
blessing, to her own unhallowed marriage--to her lost husband.

Ag