summoned domestics as if to guard his own and his wife's life from
the attempts of his son; and the servants stood wondering around--now
gazing at Mrs. Griffiths, alternately scolding and sobbing, while she
tried to restore the lad from his really bruised and half-unconscious
state; now at the fierce and angry Squire; and now at the sad and
silent Owen. And he--he was hardly aware of their looks of wonder
and terror; his father's words fell on a deadened ear; for before his
eyes there rose a pale dead babe, and in that lady's violent sounds
of grief he heard the wailing of a more sad, more hopeless mother.
For by this time the lad Robert had opened his eyes, and though
evidently suffering a good deal from the effects of Owen's blows, was
fully conscious of all that was passing around him.

Had Owen been left to his own nature, his heart would have worked
itself to doubly love the boy whom he had injured; but he was
stubborn from injustice, and hardened by suffering. He refused to
vindicate himself; he made no effort to resist the imprisonment the
Squire had decreed, until a surgeon's opinion of the real extent of
Robert's injuries was made known. It was not until the door was
locked and barred, as if upon some wild and furious beast, that the
recollection of poor Nest, without his comforting presence, came into
his mind. Oh! thought he, how she would be wearying, pining for his
tender sympathy; if, indeed, she had recovered the shock of mind
sufficiently to be sensible of consolation! What would she think of
his absence? Could she imagine he believed his father's words, and
had left her, in this her sore trouble and bereavement? The thought
madened him, and he looked around for some mode of escape.

He had been confined in a small unfurnished room on the first floor,
wainscoted, and carved all round, with a massy door, calculated to