'Not likely to sleep there to-night, boy,' said the farmer; 'mother has got visitors.'
'Visitors!' exclaimed Owen, 'and gone to bed already! what sleepy people.'
'Some of your friends of the cowld and hungry sort,' said the farmer.
'Not mother's old friends, and my relations, the Irish beggars?'
'Singular number, and a young lady!' said the farmer with a sneer and a puff of the tobacco with which he was beginning to solace himself, at the sight of the bread and cheese that were appearing.
'A poor girl, Owen, who was taken ill,' said Mrs Prothero.
'I understand it all, mother; never mind, she's welcome for once, provided I get a good bed, but to-morrow she must turn out.'
'Very well, my dear,' said Mrs Prothero submissively; for Owen, though a prodigal, was the eldest son, and generally had his own way.
'Now don't be frightened at my appetite,' said Owen, sitting down to cold meat and strong ale.
'Bless you and your appetite,' said Mrs Prothero, kissing his forehead; upon which he jumped up again, and hugged her with all his heart.