'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. We are obliged to commit dozens of them as vagrants, and I should not at all wonder if we should not be compelled to have you taken up some day for harbouring suspicious characters.'
The tears stood in Mrs Prothero's kind eyes. She had not much authority amongst the young people apparently.
'There, mother! I knew Miss Gwynne would agree with me.'
'And do you think the law of Christian charity would agree with you, Netta?' here broke in a grave and stern voice from the sofa.
Both the young ladies coloured at this interruption? Miss Gwynne with mortified dignity, Netta with anger. Mrs Prothero cast an appealing glance at her son, who came forward.
'She may have my bed, mother,' said the young man, colouring in his turn, as he met Miss Gwynne's defiant glance, that seemed to say, 'Who are you?'
'How very absurd, Mr Rowland,' said that young lady, laughing scornfully. 'I suppose, according to your law of Christian charity, we must fill our houses with all the Irish beggars that come through Carmarthenshire! A goodly company!'
'Have you seen this poor girl. Miss Gwynne?'
'No, certainly not, but I know by heart all she has to say.'
'If you would but just see her,' said Mrs Prothero entreatingly not daring to contradict the heiress of Glanyravon Park, who had a will of her own, if Mrs Prothero had not.
'With the greatest pleasure; but I know all the "my leddy's," "yer honour's," and "the sweet face o' ye," that I shall hear.'
'Don't go, Miss Gwynne, you may take the fever. I wouldn't go for the world,' cried Netta.
'I am not afraid of fevers or anything else, I hope,' said Miss Gwynne contemptuously. 'You will be afraid of catching a toothache from infection next,' and herewith she left the room, followed by Mrs Prothero.