It was through these--especially Hugh, the blacksmith, and John, the butcher--that I was informed that I was the son of Aunt Mary’s youngest sister, who had left her home early, for service in London, and had thereby grievously offended her family. In straying to London, in spite of family advice, my mother had committed a capital offence. She had, moreover, become the mother of three children, and had thereby shown herself to be a graceless and thriftless creature. ‘Now,’ said they, turning to me, ‘you will know what to expect if you offend your aunt. With us the rule is “every family for itself, and God for us all.” Mrs. Owen is a very good woman, but she will stand no nonsense. You don’t belong to her, and you will be turned out of the house the minute you forget yourself. So look out, my boy.’ A young boy cannot be expected to penetrate into the secret motives of his elders, but, though his understanding may be dull, the constant iteration of hints will not fail in the end to sharpen his intelligence. Thus it was that I came to perceive that my condition had not been bettered much by my abrupt exit from St. Asaph. If in one I had suffered physical slavery, I was now about to suffer moral slavery. I say it in no resentful sense, but as a fact. I saw that I was to be subject to an anxious woman’s temper, whose petulance would not be controlled by any tenderness for me. She was the undisputed mistress of her household, and those who were of it could only remain with her by uncomplaining submissiveness. This feeling of dependence on other people’s favour, and the sense that my condition was never to be other than the singer of their virtues, greatly troubled me at times. There are some, by nature proud, who patient in all else, demand but this: To love and be beloved, with gentleness; and being scorned, What wonder if they die, some living death!--SHELLEY. To her own children, Aunt Mary was the best of mothers. Had I received but a tithe of her affection, I fear that, like an ass partial to his crib, I should have become too home-loving ever to leave. As Jacob served Laban, I would have served aunt for years, for a mere smile, but she had not interest enough in me to study my disposition, or to suspect that the silent boy with a somewhat dogged look could be so touched by emotion. What I might have become with gracious treatment her youngest son David became. He clung to his mother’s hearth, and eventually married the daughter of Jones, of Hurblas, by whom he had a large family. All his life he remained profoundly ignorant that beyond his natal nook the universe pulsed deep and strong, but, as the saying is, ‘Home-keeping youth hath ever homely wits,’ and gain and honour are not for those who cling to their fireside.