of the rude court before the house were filled with many a delicate
mountain-flower, transplanted more for its beauty than its rarity.
The sweetbrier bush may even yet be seen, old and gray, which she and
Owen planted a green slipling beneath the window of her little
chamber. In those moments Owen forgot all besides the present; all
the cares and griefs he had known in the past, and all that might
await him of woe and death in the future. The boy, too, was as
lovely a child as the fondest parent was ever blessed with; and
crowed with delight, and clapped his little hands, as his mother held
him in her arms at the cottage-door to watch his father's ascent up
the rough path that led to Ty Glas, one bright autumnal morning; and
when the three entered the house together, it was difficult to say
which was the happiest. Owen carried his boy, and tossed and played
with him, while Nest sought out some little article of work, and
seated herself on the dresser beneath the window, where now busily
plying the needle, and then again looking at her husband, she eagerly
told him the little pieces of domestic intelligence, the winning ways
of the child, the result of yesterday's fishing, and such of the
gossip of Penmorfa as came to the ears of the now retired Nest. She
noticed that, when she mentioned any little circumstance which bore
the slightest reference to Bodowen, her husband appeared chafed and
uneasy, and at last avoided anything that might in the least remind
him of home. In truth, he had been suffering much of late from the
irritability of his father, shown in trifles to be sure, but not the
less galling on that account.

While they were thus talking, and caressing each other and the child,
a shadow darkened the room, and before they could catch a glimpse of
the object that had occasioned it, it vanished, and Squire Griffiths
lifted the door-latch and stood before them. He stood and looked--