'Whatever you do, sir, is sure to be right and kind. If you will take it upon yourself I shall be only too glad. You know the room, sir? the one where you used to go and see my poor husband.'
Rowland was upstairs immediately. Almost before he reached the door, a pale, haggard face peered out of it.
'It is—it is Howel!' cried poor Netta, rushing into the gloomy passage, and throwing her arms round Rowland's neck.
'No, Netta—dearest Netta! it is I, Rowland—your brother,' said Rowland, supporting his fainting sister back into the room.
'Uncle! Uncle Rowland! I am so glad!' exclaimed a little voice, as Minette ran towards him and clasped his knees.
As, the glare of the gas by which the room was lighted fell upon Netta's face, Rowland half believed that it was the corpse of his once blooming sister that he was placing on the sofa.
'Fetch some water, Minette, darling,' said Rowland, supporting Netta.
'This is what mamma takes,' said the child, bringing Rowland a small bottle labelled 'Prussic acid' from the bedroom.
'I cannot give her this. Is there no wine?'
'The little girl went to an old chiffonier and brought a decanter with wine in it. Rowland poured some down Netta's throat, and she recovered.