‘My dear Courtenay,’ said the younger son, touched to the depth of a delicate and sensitive nature by the rare concession of the head of the house, ‘things are best as they are. You have enough which you require. I have not enough, which is an equal necessity of my nature. I should die here like a falcon in a corn-chandler’s shop, pining for the sweep of her long wings against the sea-cliff, where with wave and tempest she could scream in concert. Hope and adventure are my life, the breath of my nostrils, and forth I must go.’ ‘Well, my blessing go with you, Ernest; I neither mistrust your courage nor capacity, and in any land you will probably hold your own. But I should have more confidence in your success if you had less of that infernal Neuchamp taste for managing other people’s affairs.’ ‘But, my dear Courtenay, is it not the part of a true knight and a Christian man to lead others into the right path? _We_ thankfully accept it from others. I think of the many needs of a new land, and of the rude dwellers therein.’ ‘I hate to be put right—colonists may be of the same opinion. _You_ never can be induced to do anything that is suggested by another, or any Neuchamp, that I ever heard of.’ ‘Because we take particular care to be identified with the latest, and most successful practice in all respects.’ ‘Because we are always right, I suppose. A comfortable theory, but of which the public cannot always be convinced. I never try to convince them—I merely wish to be left alone. That is where I differ from you.’ ‘You will never gain, however, by your principles, Courtenay.’ ‘You will lose your fortune by following out yours, Ernest.’ The conversation having ended, as had nearly all previous discussions between the brothers, in each adhering steadfastly to his own opinion, Ernest went his own way with the cheerful obstinacy of his character. He selected a ship and a colony. He ordered a large, comprehensive, and comparatively useless outfit. He purchased several books of fact and fiction, bearing upon the land of his adoption, for reading upon the voyage, and girding himself up, he finally completed all necessary arrangements. He bade farewell to the old home—to the villagers, whom he had known from boyhood—and to his friends and kinsfolk. He did then actually set sail in the clipper-ship _St. Swithin_, comforting himself with heroic parallels of all ages and all shades of maritime adventure.