I have tied myself down to thirteen years ago as the time of my
story; but I must go back a little beyond this for its first scenes,
and work my way up as quickly as may be to the period indicated. I
have spoken of a winter in which Herbert Fitzgerald was at home at
Castle Richmond, having then completed his Oxford doings; but I must
say something of two years previous to that, of a time when Herbert
was not so well known in the country as was his cousin of Hap House.

It was a thousand pities that a bad word should ever have been
spoken of Owen Fitzgerald; ten thousand pities that he should ever
have given occasion for such bad word. He was a fine, high-spirited,
handsome fellow, with a loving heart within his breast, and bright
thoughts within his brain. It was utterly wrong that a man
constituted as he was should commence life by living alone in a
large country-house. But those who spoke ill of him should have
remembered that this was his misfortune rather than his fault. Some
greater endeavour might perhaps have been made to rescue him from
evil ways. Very little such endeavour was made at all. Sir Thomas
once or twice spoke to him; but Sir Thomas was not an energetic man;
and as for Lady Fitzgerald, though she was in many things all that
was excellent, she was far too diffident to attempt the reformation
of a headstrong young man, who after all was only distantly
connected with her.

And thus there was no such attempt, and poor Owen became the subject
of ill report without any substantial effort having been made to
save him. He was a very handsome man--tall, being somewhat over six
feet in height--athletic, almost more than in proportion--with