first on his son, so different, in his buoyant expression of content
and enjoyment, with his noble child in his arms, like a proud and
happy father, as he was, from the depressed, moody young man he too
often appeared at Bodowen; then on Nest--poor, trembling, sickened
Nest!--who dropped her work, but yet durst not stir from her seat, on
the dresser, while she looked to her husband as if for protection
from his father.

The Squire was silent, as he glared from one to the other, his
features white with restrained passion. When he spoke, his words
came most distinct in their forced composure. It was to his son he
addressed himself:

"That woman! who is she?"

Owen hesitated one moment, and then replied, in a steady, yet quiet
voice:

"Father, that woman is my wife."

He would have added some apology for the long concealment of his
marriage; have appealed to his father's forgiveness; but the foam
flew from Squire Owen's lips as he burst forth with invective against
Nest:-

"You have married her! It is as they told me! Married Nest
Pritchard yr buten! And you stand there as if you had not disgraced
yourself for ever and ever with your accursed wiving! And the fair
harlot sits there, in her mocking modesty, practising the mimming
airs that will become her state as future Lady of Bodowen. But I