neglected, while the little Owen was king of the house; still next to
his father, none tended him so lovingly as his sister. She was so
accustomed to give way to him that it was no longer a hardship. By
night and by day Owen was the constant companion of his father, and
increasing years seemed only to confirm the custom. It was an
unnatural life for the child, seeing no bright little faces peering
into his own (for Augharad was, as I said before, five or six years
older, and her face, poor motherless girl! was often anything but
bright), hearing no din of clear ringing voices, but day after day
sharing the otherwise solitary hours of his father, whether in the
dim room, surrounded by wizard-like antiquities, or pattering his
little feet to keep up with his "tada" in his mountain rambles or
shooting excursions. When the pair came to some little foaming
brook, where the stepping-stones were far and wide, the father
carried his little boy across with the tenderest care; when the lad
was weary, they rested, he cradled in his father's arms, or the
Squire would lift him up and carry him to his home again. The boy
was indulged (for his father felt flattered by the desire) in his
wish of sharing his meals and keeping the same hours. All this
indulgence did not render Owen unamiable, but it made him wilful, and
not a happy child. He had a thoughtful look, not common to the face
of a young boy. He knew no games, no merry sports; his information
was of an imaginative and speculative character. His father
delighted to interest him in his own studies, without considering how
far they were healthy for so young a mind.

Of course Squire Griffiths was not unaware of the prophecy which was
to be fulfilled in his generation. He would occasionally refer to it
when among his friends, with sceptical levity; but in truth it lay
nearer to his heart than he chose to acknowledge. His strong