'Mother' found the object of their conversation that very evening in the wheat field, sitting under a tree, at work. She had sent her out for a walk, and this was her exercise. Owen and Netta were with their mother, and as they approached, Gladys rose, curtseyed, and was going away, when Owen made an unnatural kind of whistle, as if to frighten away some cows in the distance. Gladys started, and with a terrified face glanced at him. He found that she had very beautiful, violet eyes, with lashes so long and black, that when she looked to the earth again they made a strange contrast to her pale face. 'What sad, uncomfortable eyes,' thought Owen; 'I must have another glance at them by-and-by. If she had a colour she might be pretty, as mother says, but it makes one ill to look at her.' 'Do you think,' said Mrs Prothero, addressing Gladys, 'that you could manage to help in the harvest; My husband says he will employ you, if you can.' 'Oh, thank you, my lady! I would do my best, and if I could only stay here longer under any circumstances--I should--oh, be so thankful!' This was said with much hesitation. 'Very well, then; if you will try to-morrow we shall be able to judge what you can do.' 'She don't look strong enough to bind the sheaves,' said Owen. 'I will try, sir, if you please,' said Gladys. 'What is the name of the friends you are seeking?' asked Owen with a glance at his sister. 'Jones, sir,' replied Gladys, again looking at Owen. 'Perhaps there is a David in the family?' asked Owen. 'I believe that my grandfather's name was David,' was the reply. 'Now, if you walk through Carmarthenshire, and just ask every one you meet if they know David Jones, I am sure you would find him. It is astonishing what a powerful name David Jones is. I know a Rev. David Jones very well? a clergyman too--' 'Oh! if you could only tell me where to find him. I would go anywhere for my poor mother's sake!' The girl clasped her hands and looked imploringly at Owen. He was silenced by the appeal of the eyes he did not believe in. Mrs Prothero glanced at him reproachfully, and said,-- 'It is such a common Welsh name that I am afraid it would be no guide to you, unless you would remember the place where he lived.' 'I daresay it began with Llan,' broke in Owen. 'I am almost sure it did,' said Gladys; 'but mother never liked to talk of the place,' 'What do you say, mother, to writing to the Rev. David Jones, Llan., etc., Carmarthenshire?' Netta laughed aloud; she could not help it; whilst Gladys again looked upon the ground. 'Owen,' whispered Mrs Prothero, taking her son's arm and leading him away, 'what is a joke to you is death to her, remember that.' 'There, don't be angry, mother; I will help her to do her work to-morrow.'