CHAPTER II.
OWEN FITZGERALD.
I have tied myself down to thirteen years ago as the time of my story; but I must go back a little beyond this for its first scenes, and work my way up as quickly as may be to the period indicated.

I have spoken of a winter in which Herbert Fitzgerald was at home at Castle Richmond, having then completed his Oxford doings; but I must say something of two years previous to that, of a time when Herbert was not so well known in the county as was his cousin of Hap House.
It was a thousand pities that a bad word should ever have been spoken of Owen Fitzgerald; ten thousand pities that he should ever have given occasion for such bad word.

He was a fine, high-spirited, handsome fellow, with a loving heart within his breast, and bright thoughts within his brain.

It was utterly wrong that a man constituted as he was should commence life by living alone in a large country-house.

But those who spoke ill of him should have remembered that this was his misfortune rather than his fault.