in any way.  If he got into difficulties, he got out of them pretty easily:  if he was in want of bread, which had been frequently the case, his friends at home knew nothing of it.  Beyond the regular new outfit, in the way of clothes, that his mother made for him each time that he returned home, he had never had anything from his parents, and resolutely refused it if offered.  Always cheerful, hopeful, in high spirits, open as the day, affectionate, and attractive, he was a welcome guest wherever he went.  Did he come home in rags, or as now, with a peep-show in his arms, or as once before, with a hurdy-gurdy and monkey, all his old friends made merry, and gave parties in his honour.  And whatever the state of his wardrobe or exchequer, he was sure to be in the fields the following day, reaping, hay-making, ploughing, sowing, or even milking, as either of these, or similar avocations, came in his way.  Nobody could be angry with him, and his father’s lectures, and his brother’s reasonings all melted away before the row of white teeth that he was for ever displaying in his joyous laughter.

Of middle height, athletic, sunburnt—­with hands almost as brown as his merry brown eyes—­with black, long, curly hair, a bushy beard, and plenty of whiskers, a bronze neck from which, in sailor fashion, the blue and white shirt-collar receded—­and a broad forehead, showing all kinds of bumps, particularly those of locality over the bushy black eyebrows—­Owen Prothero was as fine a type of an English sailor as could be found the broad seas over.

He was in the habit of falling desperately in love with at least one out of every five or six girls that came in his way, and of making frightful havoc in the hearts of females of all ranks and ages.  Netta’s general inquiry was,—­’Well, Owen, who is the last new love?’ to which Owen would gravely reply, by a recapitulation of the charms of some fair damsel on whom his affections would be for ever fixed, could he only afford to marry.  All his beauties had bright eyes, bright complexions, mirthful smiles, and were very ‘jolly,’ which seemed to be the word including all that was necessary to make a woman charming in his eyes.

‘So, Netta, Howel has come into a fine fortune!’ he began one morning, when he and his sister were alone together.  ’I suppose he won’t think of little cousin Netta now?’

‘Oh! indeed,’ was Netta’s reply with a toss of the head.

’I wish he was here now.  He is a fine fellow in his way.  I do like Howel.’

‘I knew you would say so,’ exclaimed Netta.  ’You are a kind, dear brother.  They are all turned against him, even mother, who can take in the scum of the earth, and make much of a wretched Irish beggar, and will not ask Howel here, who is a gentleman,’

’Oh! oh! that’s the way the wind blows.  So you do not forget cousin Howel, Miss Netta.’

‘No, I assure you; and I won’t forget him, that’s more.’

’Bravo!  Netta.  I admire a girl of spirit.  But, perhaps now he is so rich he will not think of you.’