Owen put his hand on the arm that rested on the cow, and said earnestly,-- 'Then treat me as your brother.' 'I have lost my brothers and sisters, and father and mother, and kith and kin.

I have seen them all die--all that ever loved me.

Oh! Mr Owen! you are too kind--too kind; but do not talk to me so, or it will break my heart.' Here was even more of Irish feeling than Owen either expected or desired.

But he took Gladys's hand in his, and, looking kindly from his large honest dark eyes into hers, said,-- 'Forgive me, Gladys, for making you think of your sorrows.

But you know my dear sister Netta is as good as lost to me, and I want some one who will be like her, or at least, who will not be quite as cold as clay.' 'Gladys withdrew her eyes and her hand.