'I do not know him personally, but I know him by reputation; he is curate of an old friend of mine, Mr Stephenson.'
'To be seure—Rowly's rector! Allow me to shake hands with you, sir. You'll sleep at Glanyravon.'
'Certainly, if I shall not inconvenience you and your family. Your daughter looks very ill and tired; perhaps it may—'
'Not a bit, sir. She's not my daughter; she always looks as pale as moonlight, 'scept when she blushes up; she'll see to a bed for a strange gentleman, and so'll my missus. To think of your knowing Mr Stephenson!'
'Yes, I saw him during my short stay in town, and he told me he had a capital curate, a countryman of mine. A regular hard-working, useful parish priest, he called him; a good preacher besides!'
'Well, mother will be pleased, won't she, Gladys?'
This was said in the old good-humoured way, and Gladys brightened up as she answered,—
'Yes, sir, very.'
'Are you ill?' said the stranger, looking at Gladys with sudden interest.
'No, sir, thank you; I am only rather tired,' was the reply.