'Oh dear, dear! what will be the end of it?' said Mrs Prothero to Owen
as Netta sulked upstairs. 'I wish Rowland was at home.'
'Very complimentary to your eldest son!' said Owen, laughing.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE MILLIONAIRE.
Nearly a twelvemonth passed, and an autumn morning again hovered over
Glanyravon Farm. It would seem that all the inmates of the homestead
were sleeping; but there was one already awake and moving furtively
about. It was Netta, not usually such an early riser. The curtains of
her trim little bed and window were drawn aside to admit all the light
that a September twilight could cast upon the chamber in which she had
slept since her childhood. A lovely bunch of monthly roses and some
leaves of dark green ivy alone looked in upon her in the uncertain
gloaming, as if imaging her present and future. She was dressing herself
hastily, but with care, in her very best attire. She stood before the
glass braiding and arranging her dark glossy hair, that luxuriant
ornament of her bright, rosy face; then she put on the blossom white
lace habit-shirt and striped pink and drab silk dress, her kind father's
last gift, and the smart shawl and pink bonnet were duly arranged
afterwards. Whatever the early visit Netta was about to make, it was
evidently a premeditated one.
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