"But this is the _Irish_ language," Marsh persisted, as if the Irishness of the tongue transcended the drudgery of learning grammar. Mr. Quinn crumpled the _Northern Whig_ and threw it at Marsh's head. "You an' your oul' language!" he exclaimed. "What good'll it do anybody but a lot of professors. Here's the world tryin' to get Latin an' Greek out of the universities, an' here's you tryin' to get another dead language into them!" There followed an argument that developed into a wrangle, in the midst of which Henry, flinging a consolatory speech to Marsh, escaped from the house. "You'll get all the keen ones to-night," he said. "That'll be some consolation to you!" It was too soon to go up to Hamilton's farm. The dairy work would hardly be done, and there would be the evening meal to prepare, and he knew that he would not be welcome in the middle of that activity. He did not wish to return to the room where his father and John Marsh were arguing about the Irish language, nor did he wish to go and sit in his own room until the time came to go and meet Sheila. If Hannah were to make some sandwiches for him, in case he should feel hungry, he would go to the bottom fields and lie in the long grass by the brook until it was time to meet Sheila. He went downstairs to the kitchen and found Hannah busy with the night's dinner. "Well, Master Henry!" she said. He told her of his headache and his desire for a solitary walk, and asked her to cut sandwiches for him. "I will with a heart an' a half," she said, "when I've strained these potatoes. Sit down there a while an' content yourself till I've done...."