Hereupon the young man arose from the sofa, and bowing profoundly, said,-- 'Good evening, Miss Gwynne,' with a tone as grave as his appearance.
'I beg your pardon, Mr Rowland,' said the young lady, who we now introduce in form as Miss Gwynne of Glanyravon Park.
With a very becoming grace, she advanced and held out her hand to Mr Rowland Prothero, eldest son of the good farmer and his wife, just returned from Oxford.

Mr Rowland slightly touched the hand, bowed again gravely, and placed a chair for Miss Gwynne.
'I thought I should never come here again,' said that young lady, turning from Mr Rowland with a nod and a 'thank you,' and retreating towards the window where the mother and daughter were standing, 'what with the rain, and poor papa's nervous complaints, and all the affairs, I declare I have been as busy as possible.' 'Now, Miss Gwynne, I am sure you will agree with me,' cried Netta, suddenly brightening up and getting animated 'Do you think it right to encourage those Irish beggars ?' 'Right! no, of course I don't.' 'And do you think people ought to allow them to come into the house--to take them in, and to--to shelter them in short ?' 'Decidedly not.

I hope you don't do such things, Mrs Prothero ?' There was a wicked twinkle in a merry eye as this was said.
'The truth is, Miss Gwynne,' said Mrs Prothero, slowly rubbing her hands one over another, 'there is a poor Irish girl in the barn almost dying, and it is impossible to send her to the Union to-night, or to leave her where she is.' 'Oh, I'll write an order for the Union in papa's name.

You can't believe a word those Irish say.

You had better get her sent off directly.' This was said with the air of command and decision of one not accustomed to have her orders disputed.
'But, Miss Gwynne, if you only knew--' began the overwhelmed Mrs Prothero.
'I know quite well.