“I am truly sorry to hear tidings so sad. What is your aunt’s name?”
“Her name is Gwenfan Wynn, which is the name of my sister.”
“But are you not in error in calling her Wynn? I heard she got married some years ago.”
“My aunt was never married.”
“Are you sure of that, my child?”
“Quite sure, sir.”
“You greatly surprise me. I was given to understand she married a Scotch gentleman, many, many years ago.”
“She did leave home with the intention of being married to a Mr. McDonel, but finding, fortunately before it was too late, that the representations he made of himself about his property, estate, and high connections, were all false, she broke off the match, and not wishing to return home then, when she would probably be subjected to perhaps unkind observations, took a situation in a nobleman’s family then about to visit Italy, with whom she has lived until within the last few weeks. The family only recently returned to England, and on the evening after their arrival, my aunt saw in the Times the announcement of my parents’ death. She immediately left London, and came to us in Wales. She is now with my dear sister acting as her guardian and friend.”
“I thank you, my child, for your information. You must now accompany me to my residence. You shall not want for a home and a friend as long as Owen Jones lives.”
“But, sir, I do not wish, nor can I consent, to live on charity. I’ve come up to London to work for my bread, and if Heaven smiles on my efforts I shall attain an honourable independency.”