‘Is this Glanyravon, mamma?’ asks Minette waking up and rubbing her eyes.

No answer.

Owen jumps out, and without stopping to greet his pale, trembling mother, turns to help Netta, who cannot help herself.  He carries a dead weight into the parlour, and lays it on the sofa.  Netta has fainted.

Gladys is at her side in a moment with every kind of restorative but no one notices or thinks of her.  Mrs Prothero is on her knees rubbing her child’s cold hands, and looking as white as the corpse-like daughter thus restored to her.  Mr and Mrs Jonathan look at one another, and then at Netta, with a glance of pity and grief.

There is another face for one moment bent over the sofa, and the next a loud heavy groan is heard in the corner of the room that comes from a heart in extreme agony; but no one, save Minette, seems conscious of it.  She turns affrighted at the sound, and in the impulse of her quick, warm nature runs to comfort.

‘Mamma will be better soon,’ she says; ’she is often so.  Don’t cry so loud, you will frighten her.’

Poor Mr Prothero removes his hand from his eyes to behold, for the first time, his grandchild.  Another heavy groan, almost a cry, and he takes the child in his large arms, and presses her to his breast, weeping like an infant.

Netta uncloses her eyes on familiar objects for a moment, and shuts them again.  Has she seen the cheerful, old-fashioned parlour, the bright fire, near which the sofa is wheeled, her father’s portrait over the mantelpiece, her mother at her feet?

‘She is getting better,’ whispers Gladys, who still holds her place at Netta’s head, with strong salts in her hand, and a bottle and glass by her side.

Again the eyes unclose, wander restlessly from one anxious face to another, settling on none; close again, once more unclose and look with some consciousness on the breathless group that surrounds the sofa.

‘Father! father!’ now murmurs Netta; ‘where is father?’

The feeble cry has reached that father’s ears and inmost heart.  He puts down Minette and staggers, blinded by his grief, to the sofa.  All withdrew but his wife.  He is on his knees before his poor penitent daughter.  Her arms are round his neck, and she strives to rise but cannot.  Oh! the depth, agony, remorse of that long, silent, paternal, and filial embrace.

‘Do you forgive me, father?’ asks Netta.

‘All—­all.  God forgive us both!’ groans Mr Prothero.

Mrs Prothero lays her head on her hands on the sofa, by which she kneels, and gives way to a passionate burst of grief.

‘My poor, poor mistress,’ says Gladys, unable any longer to refrain from approaching her.  ‘All is well; she will be better now.’

‘Mother!’ cries Netta.  ‘Don’t cry so for me.  Come and kiss me, mother.’

Father and mother surround with their arms that wandering, restored lamb, and take it into the fold again.