Another short week, and Glanyravon Farm held no longer even that once beautiful tenement.  Quiet forms moved about in black clothing, and melancholy faces looked sadly at one another, and spoke low of her from whom they were parted for an indefinite period.

Such is life!

Death! what know the living of death?  Is it not ’swallowed up in victory?’ Death, then, to the believer in Christ is victory.

Such is death!

These were thoughts that presented themselves to Rowland Prothero after he had followed his sister’s body to the grave.  It was with such thoughts, simplified when put into words, that he attempted to comfort his mother, and to raise his father’s mind from a morbid ruminating upon the past, to the hope that his beloved child had found death victory.  Whilst Gladys comforted Owen and Minette, Rowland seemed to be all in all to his parents, and devoted himself to them during the period that he was able to leave his duties in London.  The news of the death of his rector abroad had reached him the day before the intelligence of that of Netta; and, had it not been for the kind exertions of Mr Jones, he could not have stayed with his family the Sunday that followed the funeral.

Mr Jones, however, managed everything for him in London, and procured help in the emergency.  Thus Rowland was able to accompany his family to church, and to be with them a few days of the week succeeding that on which his dear sister was buried.

It was on the afternoon of one of these few and precious days that he was sitting alone with his mother.  The rest of the family were about their necessary avocations.  Gladys, followed by poor little Minette in her black frock, was managing the household.  Owen and his father were out of doors, the former doing his best to cheer his poor father, who had been perhaps more entirely cast down by his loss than any other member of the family, Mrs Prothero not excepted.  As he himself said, he had not known what an idol he had made of his girl until she was gone from him.

Rowland and his mother were talking of Netta.  It was Mrs Prothero’s one theme when alone with him or Gladys.  They could comfort her aching heart by assuring her that they believed her child’s repentance to have been sincere, and her faith, if at times troubled and confused by the wandering mind and puzzled brain, placed on the One sole and sure foundation.

It was in the midst of this conversation that Mrs Griffith Jenkins entered, unushered, into the parlour where they were sitting.

At the earnest request of his wife and all his children, backed by the feeling that Netta would have wished it, Mr Prothero had consented to ask Mrs Jenkins to the funeral, which she had attended, together with Mrs Prothero, Mrs Jonathan, and Gladys.  Mr Prothero had shaken her by the hand on that sad day, but had not spoken to her.  Sorrow had so far bowed his spirit as to teach him to forgive her, if not Howel.