Do you care for this great gentleman ?' 'Oh! no sir,' said Gladys, sadly.

'How can you suspect me of such a thing?
Are my manners so forward, or am I so foolish as to let any one suppose I could think of people so far above me?
This is not kind, Mr Owen.' 'One more, Gladys.

Those beneath you, then.

You cannot, I feel you cannot, think of that gardener or footman at the Park, or of young Gwillim, the Half Moon, or--there are so many who admire you, Gladys.' 'Oh! no, sir, I do not think so; no one says so to me, and I care for none of them.

Now, I had better go, if you please, Mr Owen--my mistress will be wanting me.' 'I should think she 'ould, seure enough,' said a stentorian voice, as Mr Prothero entered the cow-house, having just heard the last words, and seen the clasped hands.
Gladys looked entreatingly at Owen, who at once said, 'It was my fault that she stayed here, I kept her against her will.' Gladys glanced gratefully at Owen, and left him with his father; but before she was out of hearing, the farmer's loud voice was audible, informing Owen that he 'didn't want another 'lopement from his house; and that that Irish beggar should leave the place.' 'It was all chance, father, and my fault,' said Owen.
'It's always chance and your fault then.