Perhaps these feelings would account for the little look of worry and discontent in her face on the Sunday morning while her uncle lingered round her sofa.
"Well, I'm sorry to leave you alone, Gwenda; but here are the magazines, and I'll soon be back.

I don't like the Nantmyny pew to be empty, you know.

Good-bye." When the sounds of the carriage-wheels had died away, Gwenda took up one of the magazines and turned over the pages listlessly.

She sighed a little wearily, and fell asleep--a sleep which lasted until her uncle returned from church, and came blustering into the room.
"Well, pommy word, child, I think you have had the best of it this morning.

Price the vicar didn't preach.