She plucked a bunch of the wild roses that hung around and above her, and dashed them petulantly into the stream. She watched them as their course was interrupted by the large masses of rock, and they were tossed here and there by the angry mischievous water. At last they hung trembling on a huge stone, stranded, as it were, on their impetuous course. Again, for a moment, a serious comparison arose in her mind, and she wondered whether her life might be like that of the flowers she had cast away from her? whether she might be carried, by the force of contending passions, and left to wither upon some hard shore that as yet she knew not of. Such ideas naturally present themselves to the mind of all who are not wholly devoid of imagination and when the rapid stream again bore, away the bunch of roses, and Netta saw them no more, she had quite believed that such would be her course upon the troubled waters of the world. But she was not long left to speculate upon her future. Whilst her eyes were yet fixed upon the spot whence the roses had vanished, she felt a hand on her shoulder, heard a voice call her name, and starting round, saw her cousin Howel behind her. He had crept so softly down that she had not heard him, and she uttered a sharp cry that sounded like one of terror, as she suddenly felt his touch. 'A strange greeting, Netta,' were the first words, after they had shaken hands. 'You frightened me, and why were you not here sooner? I have been waiting an hour,' was the rejoinder, in a tone of voice that belied the radiant joy of the young face. Suddenly Netta seemed to recollect something that brought a shadow over the sunshine. 'Cousin Howel, I--I am very sorry for you. Poor Uncle Griff! How is aunt?--and you--you look ill, Howel; what is the matter?' It was difficult for Netta to know what to say about the death of the miser. She was not sorry, and she could not tell how her cousin felt. 'Oh, yes; my mother is pretty well. I have been ill, but shall soon be all right again. Netta, how long is it since we met?' 'A twelvemonth next Friday.' 'You remember the day, dear Netta. Then you do not hate me, although they have done their best to make you do so, by calling me gambler, spendthrift, drunkard, and all the charming etceteras.' 'Oh no, Howel.' 'Take off that bonnet, and let me see if you are altered.' He unfastened the strings, and let the long black curls fall over the girl's neck. 'No, you are only prettier than ever, cousin Netta. How would you look in lace and pearls, and all the goodly array of a fine lady?' 'I don't know, Howel; but tell me what you wanted me for. 'Just let me twist this bunch of roses into your hair first, to see how an evening toilette would become my pretty cousin Netta.' Howel had torn a spray from the rose-bush at their back, and he inserted it carelessly amongst the curls.