her and
her grandfather; completing a 'round table' more cheerful and natural
than that of King Arthur.

Through the open window and white netted curtains--Gladys' treasured
work--the roses and sunbeams look in together, and the distant mountains
are blue and hazy as the sky. Flowers are on the mantel-piece and
tables, bridal-favours are scattered here and there. Above all, there is
a large white and silver bow, surmounting that 'curiosity' in the
corner, towards which all eyes occasionally turn. Perhaps we may as well
peep within the little white curtains.

There lies a wee baby, fast asleep, with its tiny hand outside the
coverlet, and its lace cap on the little pillow. 'Netta,' is the name of
that small fragment of humanity. Owen and Gladys' first-born.

Having surveyed the company, we will listen to their conversation.

'Well, father, don't you feel vain-glorious to-day?' says Owen,
stopping suddenly on his way to the cradle, and pulling his father's
grey whisker.

'I feel very thankful that it is all over, and very unnatural.'

'Not unnatural, David, bach,' says his wife.

'Yes, unnatural. It was never intended for Miss Gwynne to be my
daughter-in-law, and I breakfasting at the Park. I felt like a hog in
armour, fidgeting inside and out.'

'Perhaps it was never intended for me to be your daughter, either,' says
Gladys, looking archly at the farmer.

'Treue for you, my dear. That was a piece of luck that came without my
seeking, and I like it all the better for that reason, I suppose.'

'I am sure you may rejoice in the present Mrs Rowland Prothero,' says
Mrs Jonathan; 'and you certainly need not imagine, for one moment, that
she is degrading herself by marrying your son. In London he is in the
first society, and meets people constantly, on equal terms, who would
quite throw your Lady Marys into the shade. Does he not, Mr Jones?'

'I cannot quite enter into these points, ma'am,' says Mr Jones; 'but he
and his bride are as well suited to one another as any young people I
ever saw, and will be a blessing to their parish and their friends.'

'Besides, if you come to family, brother David,' says Mr Jonathan, 'ours
is of considerable antiquity, and I cannot think how it got Anglicised
into Prothero. You know I have been enabled to trace it back to
Rhyddrch, or Rhodri, a prince who fought with and frequently defeated
Ethelbald. You may not be aware, Mrs Jones, that our name, properly
Prydderch, means Ap Rhyd