CHAPTER V.
THE FARMER'S SON.
At about ten o'clock on Monday morning Miss Gwynne rode up to the door of Glanyravon Farm, and, dismounting, entered the house.

She was attended by a groom, and told him that she should not be long.
'How is that poor girl, Netta ?' were her first words on entering the house.
'Very ill indeed, I believe,' said Netta, rather sulkily.
'Where is your mother ?' 'She has been with the Irish beggar all the morning, and all night too.
I don't know what father and uncle and aunt will think.' 'Will you ask your mother whether I can see her for a few minutes ?' 'Certainly.' 'Netta, you must come and dine with us on Wednesday, with your uncle and aunt.' 'Thank you,' said Netta, brightening up as she left the room.
'I'm sure I scarcely know whether she will behave rightly,' muttered Miss Gwynne, tapping her hand with her riding-whip.
Mrs Prothero soon appeared.
'You good, clear Mrs Prothero!' exclaimed Miss Gwynne, running up to her and taking both her hands.

'You look quite worn out.

How is that poor girl ?' 'Alive, Miss Gwynne, and that is almost all,' was the reply very gravely uttered.
'Can we do anything?
Did Dr Richards come ?' 'Yes, Miss Gwynne, and was very kind.

He has been again this morning.' 'I came to invite Mr Rowland and Netta to dinner on Wednesday, with Mr and Mrs Jonathan Prothero.' 'Thank you, Miss Gwynne, I will tell Rowland; but I really think Netta had better not go.' 'I have just told her of the invitation.' 'Dear me! I am really very sorry.