'
The general exclamations of surprise may be imagined.
'The girl's dreaming, like Netta,' from Mr Prothero.
'Why didn't you tell me before?' from Owen.
'I knew she was true,' from Mrs Prothero.
'How can this be, Gladys?' from Netta.
Gladys told her story simply. Every one was too much engrossed with it,
to think of the pretty picture that wondering family group made; but as
we know it already, we will look at the picture whilst she is telling
her tale.
The large, old-fashioned sofa is placed at one side of the fire-place,
its head against the wall, its foot towards the window, so as to give
Netta warmth and the view of the distant hills at the same time. Between
the head of the sofa and the fire-place is an arm-chair, also against
the wall, Mr Prothero's favourite seat; and Minette's footstool is by
the side of her mother, and at the feet of her grandfather.
Netta's pale face is in shadow, but the large, bright black eyes beam
upon Gladys, with preternatural lustre, and the raven hair shines
against the white pillow that supports her head. The broad, massive
figure of the father, in its rough work-a-day clothes, is also in
shadow. One elbow rests upon the arm of Netta's sofa, one hand smooths
mechanically the head of his grandchild, resting against his knee.
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