I don't want to catch the fever, and I never will run the risk by nursing such a girl as that.' 'Surely, Netta, you cannot be our mother's daughter, or you could not use such unchristian expressions.' 'I'm no more unchristian than other people, but you're always finding fault with me.' The conversation was interrupted by a loud knocking at the house door, and Farmer Prothero's voice was heard without, calling,-- 'Mother, mother, where are you?
Here we are, all come!' Netta flew to open the door, and was soon industriously kissing a lady and gentleman, who had just alighted from a little four-wheeled carriage, and were waiting, with her father, for admission.

Rowland, also, in his turn, duly embraced the lady, who seemed much pleased to see him.

They brought in various packages, and proceeded to the parlour.
'Where's mother, Netta ?' exclaimed Mr Prothero.
Rowland answered for her.
'She is gone to Mrs Griffey Jenkins, father; perhaps you have not heard that Uncle Griff is dead.' 'Not I, indeed.

Well! he's as good out of the world as in, though I'm sorry for the old fellow.

But what'll we do without mother?
She's always nursing somebody or other, either alive or dead.' Rowland turned to his aunt, and said that his mother begged him to apologise for her necessary absence for a few hours.
'I shall do very well, I daresay,' said the aunt, whose countenance wore a somewhat austere expression.
She was a lady of middle age, who prided herself upon having a first cousin a baronet.