This
large hand and that tender head come within the glow of the fire-light.
His grey head is lifted towards Gladys, on whom his keen black eyes, so
like Netta's, are also fixed. Minette, too, sitting at his feet, gazes
with child-like wonder on Gladys; her long black curls falling over her
pale face. Grandsire, daughter, child, so like one another, and yet so
far apart in age. Three types they are of the ancient Briton.
Opposite this trio, with her left hand clasped in that of Netta, and
close to her sofa, stands the fair, blue-eyed, graceful Gladys;
thoroughly Irish in beauty, if Welsh in heart. The red glare of the
large bright fire brings out her sweet, earnest face, and slight form.
Her eyes are cast down, as if they cannot support the gaze of so many
other eyes, and her cheeks are flushed with a strange excitement.
Towering a full head above her, his arm round her waist, the thick black
beard touching her hair is the manly, handsome Owen. Love, joy, pride,
in his honest black eyes, and health on his bronzed and ruddy cheeks.
Seated on the sofa, her arms on Netta's knees, her head, with its silver
hair, and plain white lace cap, eagerly pressed forward, is the
well-beloved mother. For the first time since Netta's return, grief for
the one child, has merged into joy for the other, and prayer and praise
for all are in her heart even whilst she listens.
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