Oh, pause a little longer and consider, poor Netta! But no. The sudden flash of sunlight into the room terrifies the thoughtless child, and she goes hastily into the passage. Quietly she closes her door; stealthily she creeps along. She makes no sound as she steals, like a thief, through the house where she was born some eighteen summers ago. Before one closed door she pauses again--listens. She can hear the breath of the sleepers within. She is on her knees, and represses with difficulty a rising sob, 'Mother! mother! forgive me! God bless you!' she whispers, as she once more rises and runs down the remainder of the passage--downstairs--through the hall--through the parlour, and out by the little glass door into the garden. In spite of her tears, haste, agitation she cannot pass that bed of carnations--her mother's treasure--without stopping to gather one fresh and dripping with the air and dews of night. Innocent flowers! they will see her mother that very day; but what of the stray, wandering rose of Glanyravon? Through the garden, and out by the little wicket into the lane; across a field sparkling with dewdrops; over a stile; down another lane; over another stile, and into another field! Here she pauses and glances round. A dark figure at the opposite side of the field seems to assure her that all is well. She runs quickly across the meadow, and within it, under shelter of the hedge, near a half-open gate, stands Mrs Griffith Jenkins. 'Where is Howel?' asks Netta hastily. 'He did write yesterday to say he 'ould bring the carriage from Swansea to meet us at Tynewydd, and he was sure to be there by six o'clock,' 'Let us make haste then, Aunt 'Lisbeth. Why didn't he come here himself? I have a great mind to turn back.' 'Come you, Netta, fach! we'll soon be there. See you the letter?' 'Not now--not now,' cries Netta impatiently, walking along the high road as fast as she possibly can. Mrs Jenkins keeps up with her, but is soon out of breath. 'There's Jack Trefortyn; he'll be sure to tell. Aunt 'Lisbeth, I will turn back. Father will be after me. It is too bad,' sobs Netta. 'We are near by now, Netta, fach. Come you!' The little woman quickened her pace into a short run to keep up with Netta. 'Here's the turnpike; we'll be at Tynewydd 'rectly.' 'I see Tynewydd,' says Netta, straining her eyes to catch sight of some object far down the road; 'there is no carriage--I am sure there is none. Cousin Howel ought to be ashamed of himself.' Netta runs on very fast, leaving Mrs Jenkins far behind, until she reaches the turning to a lane that leads to a little farm called 'Tynewydd.' She bursts out crying, and stamps her foot as she exclaims,-- 'Does he think he's going to do what he likes with me because he's rich? I'll tell him he shall wait for me, I will!' Hereupon she turns back and runs faster than before towards Mrs Jenkins. 'Come you, Netta, fach! He'll be here by now. Read you the letter.'