Mrs Prothero was greatly beloved, and no one could afford to lose her.
'She was so bad last night that she was not expected to see the morning,' whispered one.
'Couldn't take a drop of anything,' said another.
'Is talking of Miss Netta for ever,' said a third.
'There'll be a loss to every one.

Mr Jonathan prayed for her in church last Sunday; if prayers'll save her she 'ont die, no seure.' 'She gave me a jug of milk only Friday week.' 'And was coming to see my John in the measles Wednesday before Miss Netta ran away.' 'She's the death of her mother I always say.' 'Poor master is nearly mad.' 'And Mr Owen crying like a baby.' 'And they do say that the Irish girl is better than a daughter to 'em all.' 'Hush! I do hear wheels.

Oh! if he do come, perhaps he may rouse her up a bit.' The gates were open, and before the last whisper was over Mr Gwynne's carriage was driving down to the farm.

The bystanders drew back as it rolled through a part of the yard and stopped at the door.

Rowland got out, and was in the house almost before any one could see him.