Chickens, and tongue, and ham, and meats, and cakes, and jellies, and fruit, and wines, all froathing up like new milk, some sort of _pain_ they was calling it; but I never did be seeing such good _pain_ or tasting it before, he! he!' 'I don't care about the dress or the dinner, or the grand people, cousin,' said Mrs Prothero, 'I pray God to forgive Howel for making our only girl run away from us like a thief in the night; and I would rather hear she cried for us whom she treated so badly, than that she was dressed in velvet and jewels.

All those fine people and fine things won't make her happy, and her father will never forgive her, never.

Oh dear! oh dear!' 'What will I tell her, Mrs Prothero, when I do write to my son Howels ?' 'Tell her--tell her that my heart is breaking; but I forgive her.

Beg her not to forget her parents, and, above all, not to forget her God.
Poor child! poor silly, thoughtless child, she will never be happy again.' 'Indeet to goodness, this is fullish! I shall go, Mrs Prothero.

Good morning.' Just as Mrs Jenkins was making a kind of curtsey by the bedside Gladys said that she saw Mr Prothero riding up to the house.
'Perhaps you had better make haste, Aunt 'Lizbeth,' said Owen, 'it would not very well do for you and my father to meet.' 'I 'ont be running away from any man's house, Mr Owen.