'Oh, young 'ooman, I daresay you can do this job for me. You've got a new manty-maker, mother; where's Jane Morris, name o' goodness?'
'We're only making shirts for Owen, father,' replied the wife meekly, dreading an outburst.
Gladys took up the coat and was instantly engaged in mending it, whilst Mr Prothero produced a letter just received from Rowland.
'There, my dear, now you ought to be satisfied, and I am sure Mrs Jonathan will be as proud as Punch. Rowland has been ordained by the Bishop of London himself, and "passed a very good examination," or whatever they call it. He has taken lodgings up in London, and preached his first sermon in a great church that 'ould hold three of ours. He has dined with the rector, and been to call on Sir Philip Payne Perry,—the three green peas as Owen calls him—and I wonder what even Mrs Jonathan 'ould desire more?'
Mrs Prothero read, her dear son's letter with tears in her eyes, the sudden sight of which caused sympathetic tears to flow from the eyes of the poor work-girl, much to the surprise of Mr Prothero, who chanced to look round to see whether his coat was finished.
'Hang the 'oomen,' he muttered to himself, 'they can't read a bit of a letter without blubbing. How long will that take you to do?—what's your name?'
'Gladys, if you please, sir,' said Gladys, looking up from her work. 'I shall have finished it directly, sir.'
'Gladys? Gladys what?' asked Mr Prothero.
'Gladys O'Grady, sir,' was the reply whilst the mending was coming to a close.
'Where on earth did you pick up such names as that?'