'What are those bells ringing for?' said Freda, as she wiped away some large tears that were gathering in her eyes. 'They ring for everything; soon it will be for these odious marriages. Why was I ever born? Why, above all, was I born in such a place as this? And to leave it! Yes, Frisk' (to her terrier, that was barking and jumping outside the window), 'you and I must go away. No more quarrels with Jerry; no more fights with Gelert?; no more hunts in the brook. Will you come with me to smoky London? Yes, and hate it as much as I shall. Sleep away your life by a city fire, and grow fat and old, instead of racing after me and Prince. But we shall not live long in a town, Frisk. We shall soon die of sheer laziness, and so much the better--for who will care for us? Lion and Jerry and even Gipsy will forget you; and every one has forgotten me already. Why am I so foolish as to cry so? I never knew how weak I could be until these last few days. But we must be strong, Frisk--we must be strong, and not care for this old place, and the beautiful park, and all the--oh, why will those bells ring? and what are they ringing for? And there is the dinner-bell, too, harsh as my lot. And I must try to be dutiful, and show a bold face and good courage to the world, who will pity me, or rejoice over me, and say that I wanted something to pull down my pride. And so, perhaps, I do; but this shall not be the something. No, no; it shall only make me prouder. Poor papa, too; he will be more wretched than I--I am sure he will. I cannot bear to think of him. Frisk! Frisk! don't make such a noise. Don't jump so, Frisk. There! I will take you in. Good dog! good Frisk! You love me if no one else does; you and Gladys.' CHAPTER XXXVI. THE FIRST-BORN. Those Llanfawr bells which, as Freda said, certainly did ring for everything, were sending forth their chimes to celebrate the birth of a daughter at Plas Abertewey. But whilst they were ringing, and Freda was abusing them, the mother of the little daughter was, apparently, about to depart for that other country where bells shall no longer 'ring out the old, and ring in the new,' welcome the babe, or speed the spirit of the dead. Good Dr Richards and the nurse stood, one on either side of Netta's bed, pouring brandy and wine down her throat, whilst her infant was on its grandmother's, Mrs Jenkins's lap, in the next room. The doctor was in a state of intense anxiety. He had sent off one man and horse for another surgeon, and a second to Swansea, to telegraph for Howel, who had not yet returned from London, where he had been nearly three months. He felt the great responsibility of his situation, and that if Netta did not rally, she must die. It was six o'clock in the evening; the baby had been born in the morning, and Netta's continual cry had been 'Howel! Howel! When will my husband come?' But she had not spoken for some hours, and seemed to be sinking out of the world.