with her.

A word about ourselves, first of all--a necessary word, to
explain the singular situation of our fair young guest.

We are three brothers; and we live in a barbarous, dismal old
house called The Glen Tower. Our place of abode stands in a
hilly, lonesome district of South Wales. No such thing as a line
of railway runs anywhere near us. No gentleman's seat is within
an easy drive of us. We are at an unspeakably inconvenient
distance from a town, and the village to which we send for our
letters is three miles off.

My eldest brother, Owen, was brought up to the Church. All the
prime of his life was passed in a populous London parish. For
more years than I now like to reckon up, he worked unremittingly,
in defiance of failing health and adverse fortune, amid the
multitudinous misery of the London poor; and he would, in all
probability, have sacrificed his life to his duty long before the
present time if The Glen Tower had not come into his possession
through two unexpected deaths in the elder and richer branch of
our family. This opening to him of a place of rest and refuge
saved his life. No man ever drew breath who better deserved the
gifts of fortune; for no man, I sincerely believe, more tender of
others, more diffident of himself, more gentle, more generous,
and more simple-hearted than Owen, ever walked this earth.

My second brother, Morgan, started in life as a doctor, and
learned all that his profession could teach him at home and
abroad. He realized a moderate independence by his practice,