'Me! I! Oh, capital! just the thing in my humble opinion. If you get it, you will be able to go to the Museum, and look up the old genealogy we were talking about. Do you know I have made a remarkable discovery about Careg Cennin Castle. It was built--' 'Never mind, my dear, just now; we were talking of Rowland's curacy,' interrupted Mrs Jonathan, who generally managed all business matters. 'To be sure, my dear, to be sure, you know best,' said Mr Jonathan absently, resuming his book. 'For my part, sister,' said the farmer, 'I 'ould rather he had a curacy in his own country, and so 'ould his mother; but he's so confoundedly ambitious.' 'Aunt, won't you come upstairs and take off your things?' asked Netta, interposing, for once in her life, at the right time. 'Thank you, my dear, I should be very glad,' and they accordingly disappeared. 'Father,' began Rowland, as soon as they were gone, 'I think it right to tell you, that we were obliged, out of sheer charity, to take that poor Irish girl into the house. It was impossible to move her without risk of instant death.' 'And upon my very deed, Rowland, if this isn't too bad,' cried the farmer, stamping his foot on the floor, and instantaneously swelling with passion. 'As if it wasn't enough to have paupers, and poor-rates, and sick and dying, bothering one all day long, without your bringing an Irish beggar into the house. I never saw such an 'ooman as your mother in my life; she's never quiet a minute. I 'ont stand it any longer; now 'tis a subscription for this, now a donation for that, then sixpence for Jack such a one, or a shilling for Sal the other, till I have neither peace nor money. Come you, sir, go and turn that vagabond out directly, or I'll do it before your mother comes home, hark'ee, sir.' 'I can't father, really.' 'Then I will.' Off stalked the farmer in his passion, crying out in the passage, 'Shanno, come here!' A servant girl quickly answered the summons. 'Where's that Irish vagabond?' 'In Mr Owen's room, sir.' Upstairs went the farmer, leaving Shanno grinning and saying, 'He, he, he'll do be turning her out very soon, she will, he, he.' Rowland ran upstairs after his father, calling out gently, 'Stop, father, Miss Gwynne--' but the father was in the bedroom before he heard the words, and had made the house re-echo the noise of his opening the door. He was instantaneously checked in his career by seeing Miss Gwynne advance towards him, with her finger in the air. 'Hush, Mr Prothero,' she whispered, 'she is asleep. Look here; gently, very gently.' She led the enraged farmer by one of his large brass buttons to the bedside, where the white-faced Gladys lay. She looked so much like a corpse, that he started back affrighted. Then Miss Gwynne led him out into the passage, and seeing from his angry face the state of the case, instantly said,--