A dark figure at the opposite side of the field seems to assure her that all is well.

She runs quickly across the meadow, and within it, under shelter of the hedge, near a half-open gate, stands Mrs Griffith Jenkins.
'Where is Howel ?' asks Netta hastily.
'He did write yesterday to say he 'ould bring the carriage from Swansea to meet us at Tynewydd, and he was sure to be there by six o'clock,' 'Let us make haste then, Aunt 'Lisbeth.

Why didn't he come here himself?
I have a great mind to turn back.' 'Come you, Netta, fach! we'll soon be there.

See you the letter ?' 'Not now--not now,' cries Netta impatiently, walking along the high road as fast as she possibly can.

Mrs Jenkins keeps up with her, but is soon out of breath.
'There's Jack Trefortyn; he'll be sure to tell.