As twilight was fairly come on, she told the schoolmistress that she must go home, and begged her to see that the children dispersed when she thought best. Owen, who was in the midst of a game of cricket with the boys, was as well aware of all Gladys's movements as if he had been by her side. He saw that she was shaking hands with the mistress, and that the children were imploring her to stay a little longer. He went to her and asked her to remain until he had finished his game, in order that he might see her home. She thanked him, but said, rather abruptly for her, that she must go at once, and, heedless of what he or others might think, went hastily across the park to Rowland. 'That's the way the wind blows, is it?' said Owen to himself, whilst a frown gathered on his open forehead. Rowland was unconscious of the approach of Gladys, and was startled from his trance by the words,-- 'Mr Rowland, sir, I think the mistress will be expecting you home.' He looked at her half unconsciously for a moment, and then rousing himself, said,-- 'Oh! Gladys, is it you? Yes, I will go directly. Where? Home? Of course it is time. I will walk with you.' These were the only words spoken between the pair. Rapidly he strode down the avenue, inwardly resolving never to enter it again; as rapidly along the road that led to the farm, until he reached the house, with Gladys breathless by his side. 'I am afraid I have walked too quickly, Gladys, I am very sorry. I was anxious to get home, I do not feel very well.' With these words he hurried through the passage, and was going to his room, when his father met him and called him into the parlour. He felt so bewildered that he scarcely knew what his mother said, when she told him how proud and happy he had made her by his conduct that day. 'All, my dear son, church-people and dissenters were pleased with your sermon, and the way you managed everything. Your aunt repeated it word for word to me, and it was just what I like. This is the first comfort I have felt since--' Mrs Prothero pressed her son's hand, and her eyes filled with tears. 'Thank you, mother, I am glad,' was all Rowland could say. 'Mind you, Row, my boy, you must write a good sermon for Sunday. You've got a character to lose now,' said Mr Prothero, giving him a slap on the back. 'Yes, father. I will go and write it.' 'Not to-night, Rowland,' said Mrs Prothero, anxiously; 'you look pale and tired. What is the matter?' 'Nothing, mother; but I must think of this sermon, I have only one clear day. We will talk to-morrow. Good-night, dear mother.' Rowland stooped to kiss his mother, and she felt that his face was very cold, and that his hand trembled. 'You are ill, Rowland?' 'No, only tired. I will come and see you again by-and-by.'