'Name o' goodness, what's the row?' said the farmer.

'Who's there?' demanded Shanno, in the pa.s.sage.

The answer did not reach the hall, but Shanno came rushing in, 'It's them Irishers again, master, upon my deet, they do be here for ever.'

'Give me my stick!' exclaimed Mr Prothero, 'if I don't give them a lesson my name isn't David.'

He seized a stick and went into the pa.s.sage, followed by his wife, murmuring, 'Oh, David, bach,' and by Netta as far as the door, from which she peeped down the pa.s.sage.

'Who's there?' roared the farmer in a voice of thunder.

'May it please yer honour, I'm cowld and hungry. Long life to yer honour and her leddyship, if yell only give the loan o' yer barn, or maybe yer loft, or--'

'I'll show you the way to my barn, you idle, good-for-nothing scamp,'

cried Mr Prothero, opening the door, and levelling a blow with his stick into the moonlight, that must infallibly have knocked down any one less agile than the man for whom it was intended. As it was, the unwelcome visitor jumped aside, whilst the portly farmer tripped himself up by his own impetuosity, and fell upon the threshold. Mrs Prothero and Netta screamed, and Shanno took hold of the beggar's arm, to prevent his escape. But the beggar had pulled Mr Prothero up, and was beginning to sympathise with him in broad brogue, when that valiant anti-Irishman got hold of his stick again, and began to belabour the unoffending party's back most manfully.

'Enough's as good as a faist, yer honour,' cried the stranger, skipping from side to side, and evading the blows very skilfully; 'pon my sowl, yer honour 'ud do for a fair or a wake. 'Tis madam as has the heart an'

the conscience for the poor Irish, an' miss, too, asth.o.r.e!'

The impudent fellow ran round to where Netta stood, who, in terror, went into the house, followed by the man, and after him, the rest in full hue and cry.

'Tin thousand pardons, miss,' said the man, taking off his hat and confronting Netta.

'Owen! Owen!' screamed Netta. 'For shame upon you, you naughty boy,' and therewith Netta and the unexpected guest were hugging one another, most lovingly.

''Tis the mother will give the poor Irisher a lodgin' and a drop o' the cratur,' cried that mother's well-beloved eldest born almost catching her up in his arms, and smothering her with kisses. 'And the masther isn't so hard-hearted as he looks,' he added, shaking the astonished farmer by the hand.

'Owen! oughtn't you to be ashamed of yourself?' cried the farmer, laughing aloud, and rubbing his right leg.

'Not kilt intirely, yer honour! didn't I take you all in, that's all!'

'Where did you come from? How did you come? When did you leave your ship?' were the questions reiterated on all sides of the welcome guest.

'I'll tell you all that to-morrow. At present I am dying of cowld and hunger, and haven't broke me fast since morning. Let me show you how the locker stands.'

Owen emptied his pockets, and from a corner of one of them turned out a solitary halfpenny.

'I shouldn't have had that if old Nanny Cwmgwyn hadn't given it to me just now. But I'll tell you my story to-morrow in character.'

'Not an improved one anyhow,' said Mr Prothero with a gathering frown.

'Don't lecture to-night, Datta, bach; you shall have an hour on purpose to-morrow, when I promise to listen to edification. 'Pon my word it is pleasant to be at home again. How I long to sleep in my comfortable bed once more.'

Poor Mrs Prothero's countenance fell, and Netta looked malicious.

'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 appet.i.te,' said Owen, sitting down to cold meat and strong ale.

'Bless you and your appet.i.te,' said Mrs Prothero, kissing his forehead; upon which he jumped up again, and hugged her with all his heart.

'Now, Netta, let us go and see about the sheets,' said Mrs Prothero, smoothing her dress.

The mother and daughter left the room, and were not long in preparing the best bedroom for Owen. This done, they hastened back to the hall, where they found diminished ham and increased smoke, Owen having lighted a short pipe, and taken to smoking with his father, over a large jug of ale.

'We must have your adventures to-night, Owen,' cried Netta, as she entered, 'and you must tell us why you came home so very shabby. I suppose you have been wrecked on a desert island.'

'To be sure,' said Owen, laying down the pipe. 'But I must go out and find my wardrobe, and all my valuables, that my hospitable Daddy there caused me to throw down, when he gave me such a warm welcome.'

Owen disappeared, but soon returned with a box in his hands, apparently of some weight, and a bundle slung across his shoulder, suspended on a walking stick. Putting down the box he began to sing,--

'A handkerchief held all the treasure I had.'

whilst he flourished his walking-stick and bundle over his mother's head. When he had finished his song, he put down his bundle and went to the box.

'I have shown you the size of my wardrobe, now allow me to show off the rest of my fortune and stock in trade. Father, you shall have the first peep. Let me put my box on the table, and the light--so. Now, stoop, so--look through that gla.s.s, so--and--have you got the right focus?

Yes!--To the right, you beholds the gallant 'ero, Lord Nelson, him as lost his harm, a just fallin' in the harms of Capen 'Ardy and Victory.--To the left--but first his lordship is a singin' "England expects every man to do his dooty." To the left--'

'Well, if that isn't as pretty a picture and as much like life as anything I ever saw,' said Mr Prothero, interrupting the showman. 'Come here, mother; Netta, look here.'

Mrs Prothero glanced into the box, which was nothing more nor less than a penny peep-show, and Owen began again.

'To the right you beholds,' when Netta, impatient, looked through a second gla.s.s, and exclaimed in ecstasy, 'Where did you get this, Owen?'

In answer, the scene shifted, and Owen recommenced.

'Here you beholds Lisbon, that wast city, or rayther what wos Lisbon after the great earthquake. See the ruins all around, and the women and children a screamin'; and the priests a-prayin'--those men in robes is priests, papishers, like them Irish beggars.'

'Hush, Owen,' interrupted Mrs Prothero. 'Look, father, do look here!'

While Mr Prothero and Netta gazed admiringly, Mrs Prothero was off and returned with Shanno, Mal, and Tom the boy, who were all in a broad grin of delight at the arrival of their prime favourite, Owen.

He, meanwhile, is in his element; begins with Lord Nelson again, and makes the whole party take turns. Then he goes to Lisbon; afterwards he has The Queen of the Cannibal Islands; The Great Fire of London; a portrait large as life of the immense fat man Daniel Lambert, at sight of which the servants all exclaim 'Ach!' and a variety of other splendid designs, which we decline to enumerate. Suffice it to say that they all draw forth the approving commendations of the spectators, from Mr Prothero, master, to Tom, serving-lad.

When the peep-show has been duly exhibited, Netta again demands her brother's history, and a particular account of how he procured the show.