Again the eyes unclose, wander restlessly from one anxious face to another, settling on none; close again, once more unclose and look with some consciousness on the breathless group that surrounds the sofa. 'Father! father!' now murmurs Netta; 'where is father?' The feeble cry has reached that father's ears and inmost heart. He puts down Minette and staggers, blinded by his grief, to the sofa. All withdrew but his wife. He is on his knees before his poor penitent daughter. Her arms are round his neck, and she strives to rise but cannot. Oh! the depth, agony, remorse of that long, silent, paternal, and filial embrace. 'Do you forgive me, father?' asks Netta. 'All--all. God forgive us both!' groans Mr Prothero. Mrs Prothero lays her head on her hands on the sofa, by which she kneels, and gives way to a passionate burst of grief. 'My poor, poor mistress,' says Gladys, unable any longer to refrain from approaching her. 'All is well; she will be better now.' 'Mother!' cries Netta. 'Don't cry so for me. Come and kiss me, mother.' Father and mother surround with their arms that wandering, restored lamb, and take it into the fold again. A little voice from behind is heard. 'Mamma! mamma! think of your poor Minette!' And in another minute Minette is on the sofa, in the midst of her mother, grandfather, and grandmother. Blessed are the warm, gushing tears that fall on the child's head--tears of love and reconciliation. Soon the worthy vicar and his wife, who have thus far been only spectators of the scene, draw near to bless and welcome their niece. 'She will faint again,' whispers Gladys to Owen. 'She is happy now,' replies Owen, looking into Gladys' tearful eyes from his own, equally dimmed with tears. It is the first time he has seen that face since he has known that Gladys loves him. But Gladys is right--happiness is too overpowering for Netta. She faints in the midst of all those dear ones, so kind and loving. Again Gladys is at her side to revive her, which she is able to do more quickly than before. When she is better, Gladys raises her pillows, and places her in a more comfortable posture. By degrees every one is conscious that Gladys is present. 'Dear Gladys!' says Netta, 'I am better now; quite--quite well, father!' 'Drink this first,' says Gladys, giving her some wine and water that Owen has brought. She drinks the wine and water, and again calls her father 'I brought Gladys, father; I cannot do without her. She has saved my life, I think, and mother's, so Owen told me--didn't you, Owen? May she stay with me, father?' Netta presses her hand to her head, and looks at her father with those bewildered eyes, which are only too sadly irresistible. 'Gladys!' he replies. 'Oh, yes! I haven't seen her yet.' Gladys is by his side, and he turns and shakes her hand warmly, and says,-- 'Thank you, Gladys, thank you, I have heard all; but we will talk of this another time.'