Small as it was, however, David Grant was proud of his home. He would show to visitors with pride the old black-lettered Bible, the fly-leaves of which recorded the births, marriages, and deaths of so many departed Grants, and proved that the cottage had been the dwelling of worthies of that name for more than three hundred years. His wife would open a drawer of the old linen press and show a morsel of fine linen, almost as old as the house, spun by the skilful fingers of some good housewife of the race. The interior of the house showed many a mark of age, but it was carefully kept. The oak flooring was skilfully repaired where it began to fall in, the whitewash frequently renewed upon the walls, and the thatch well mended. David would have done more to the place if he could, but his means were very limited. He had great hopes, however, for the future. He believed that his son—the clever, bright lad who was his only child and the joy and pride of his life—would be sure to do well in the world, and preserve the old place from ruin. It was rather disappointing that Owen showed so little interest or pride in the old home. He would laughingly call it an old tumbledown barn, and say that he would far rather live in one of the new red-bricked houses that were being built at Ashworth. But this, and other utterances of his which hurt his parents, they excused as the outcome of the thoughtlessness of youth. When he was older, Owen would be wiser, and would be sure to think as they did. Owen's father and mother had married late in life, after a faithful courtship of more than twelve years and when David was already far advanced in age. Their union had been a happy one, and the child that crowned it was peculiarly dear to them. It was little to be wondered at that they were more blind than most parents to the faults of their darling, more prone to believe that no other could be compared with him. David Grant was a hale man yet, able to work in garden and field, though his form, which had been unusually strong, was growing bent, and his hair was white as snow. His wife was a cheery little woman, not over strong, but with so much natural energy, that no one would have suspected her of failing health. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER II. PARTINGS. ON the Sunday previous to Owen's departure for Birmingham, his mother's face was paler than usual, and her voice less blithe. It was a sore trial to her that on the morrow she must part with her darling son—must send him, young and untried, to face alone the perils of a great city. Her husband had accused her of "fretting about Owen," and she had denied the charge. But, for all that, he knew her heart was full of sorrow and anxiety. "Here he is," she said quickly, as Owen's foot was heard on the field path, and they moved to the gate to welcome him. "Well, lad!" said his father. "And how did the prize-giving go off? Who had the prizes?"