''Tis the mother will give the poor Irisher a lodgin' and a drop o' the cratur,' cried that mother's well-beloved eldest born almost catching her up in his arms, and smothering her with kisses. 'And the masther isn't so hard-hearted as he looks,' he added, shaking the astonished farmer by the hand. 'Owen! oughtn't you to be ashamed of yourself?' cried the farmer, laughing aloud, and rubbing his right leg. 'Not kilt intirely, yer honour! didn't I take you all in, that's all!' 'Where did you come from? How did you come? When did you leave your ship?' were the questions reiterated on all sides of the welcome guest. 'I'll tell you all that to-morrow. At present I am dying of cowld and hunger, and haven't broke me fast since morning. Let me show you how the locker stands.' Owen emptied his pockets, and from a corner of one of them turned out a solitary halfpenny. 'I shouldn't have had that if old Nanny Cwmgwyn hadn't given it to me just now. But I'll tell you my story to-morrow in character.' 'Not an improved one anyhow,' said Mr Prothero with a gathering frown. 'Don't lecture to-night, Datta, bach; you shall have an hour on purpose to-morrow, when I promise to listen to edification. 'Pon my word it is pleasant to be at home again. How I long to sleep in my comfortable bed once more.' Poor Mrs Prothero's countenance fell, and Netta looked malicious. 'Not likely to sleep there to-night, boy,' said the farmer; 'mother has got visitors.' 'Visitors!' exclaimed Owen, 'and gone to bed already! what sleepy people.' 'Some of your friends of the cowld and hungry sort,' said the farmer. 'Not mother's old friends, and my relations, the Irish beggars?' 'Singular number, and a young lady!' said the farmer with a sneer and a puff of the tobacco with which he was beginning to solace himself, at the sight of the bread and cheese that were appearing. 'A poor girl, Owen, who was taken ill,' said Mrs Prothero. 'I understand it all, mother; never mind, she's welcome for once, provided I get a good bed, but to-morrow she must turn out.' 'Very well, my dear,' said Mrs Prothero submissively; for Owen, though a prodigal, was the eldest son, and generally had his own way. 'Now don't be frightened at my appetite,' said Owen, sitting down to cold meat and strong ale. 'Bless you and your appetite,' said Mrs Prothero, kissing his forehead; upon which he jumped up again, and hugged her with all his heart. 'Now, Netta, let us go and see about the sheets,' said Mrs Prothero, smoothing her dress. The mother and daughter left the room, and were not long in preparing the best bedroom for Owen. This done, they hastened back to the hall, where they found diminished ham and increased smoke, Owen having lighted a short pipe, and taken to smoking with his father, over a large jug of ale.