At about ten o'clock on Monday morning Miss Gwynne rode up to the door of Glanyravon Farm, and, dismounting, entered the house. She was attended by a groom, and told him that she should not be long.
'How is that poor girl, Netta?' were her first words on entering the house.
'Very ill indeed, I believe,' said Netta, rather sulkily.
'Where is your mother?'
'She has been with the Irish beggar all the morning, and all night too. I don't know what father and uncle and aunt will think.'
'Will you ask your mother whether I can see her for a few minutes?'
'Certainly.'
'Netta, you must come and dine with us on Wednesday, with your uncle and aunt.'
'Thank you,' said Netta, brightening up as she left the room.
'I'm sure I scarcely know whether she will behave rightly,' muttered Miss Gwynne, tapping her hand with her riding-whip.