'I suppose not? but why did she go away? Why did she leave me never to see me again?'
The following day brought the Welshman, Mr Prothero's weekly treat, which it generally took him the week thoroughly to read and enjoy.
Owen chanced to open it first, and, as is usually the case, stumbled at once upon the marriage of his sister. When his father came in he was in uncontrollable fits of laughter.
'Don't be angry, father, but I can't help it. Ha, ha, ha! D. Prothero, Esq. of Glanyravon! Oh, I shall die of it! Now, really, father, you ought to be proud.'
'What are you making such a row about?' said Mr Prothero looking over Owen's shoulder.
His eye caught the words, 'Howel Jenkins, Esq., and Miss Prothero, Glanyravon, and Sir John Simpson. This was quite enough. He seized the paper with an oath, crumpled it up, and thrust it into the fire, and gave Owen such a violent blow on the back with his fist, that the young man's first impulse was to start up and clench his in return; however, his flush of passion cooled in a moment, and he said,—
'Come, father! remember it isn't I that ran away. Time enough to give me a licking when I do. I'm much obliged to you for letting me know what a strong father I've got.'
'Once for all, Owen, take you care how you laugh upon that subject or name it to me. I can give and take a joke as well as most people, but not about that, sir, and from you. Name o' goodness, what d'ye think I'm made of!'
The farmer walked out of the hall, and left Owen heartily sorry for having hurt his father's feelings, but chuckling over the fashionable marriage.
The following morning he managed to procure another paper, and read his mother and Gladys the announcement, knowing full well that maternal pride must rejoice in the exaltation, whilst it wept over the disobedience of an only daughter.