"Seemed!--that is the very word. That excellent farmer--sure he hath a prosperous look--had mistaken me. ’Tis not the apparel makes the man; my attire is not of the best, I admit; but, I beg you tell me frankly, would you have taken me for a husbandman, one who with relentless ploughshare turns the stubborn soil, as friend Horace somewhere puts it? Would you, now?" "Decidedly not. But did my brother so mistake you?" "Your brother! Was that prosperous and well-mounted gentleman your brother?" "Certainly. He is Richard Burke, and leases the Wilcote Farm." "Noble pair of brothers!" exclaimed Diggle, seizing Desmond’s reluctant hand. "I congratulate you, my friend. What a brother! I stopped him to ask the time of day. But permit me to say, friend Desmond, you appear somewhat downcast; your countenance hath not that serenity one looks for in a lad of your years. What is the trouble?" "Oh, nothing to speak of," said Desmond curtly; he was vexed that his face still betrayed the irritation of the morning. "Very well," said Diggle with a shrug. "Far be it from me to probe your sorrows. They are nothing to me, but sure a simple question from a friend----" "Pardon me, Mr. Diggle," said Desmond impulsively, "I did not mean to offend you." "My dear boy, a tough-hided traveller does not easily take offence.--Shall we walk?--D’you know, Master Desmond, I fancy I could make a shrewd guess at your trouble. Your brother--Richard, I think you said?--is a farmer, he was born a farmer, he has the air of a farmer, and a well-doing farmer to boot. But we are not all born with a love for mother-earth, and you, meseems, have dreamed of a larger life than lies within the pinfolds of a farm. To tell the truth, my lad, I have been studying you." They were walking now side by side along the Newport road. Desmond felt that the stranger was becoming personal; but his manner was so suave and sympathetic that he could not take offence. "Yes, I have been studying you," continued Diggle. "And what is the sum of my discovery? You are wasting your life here. A country village is no place for a boy of ideas and imagination, of warm blood and springing fancy. The world is wide, my friend: why not adventure forth?" "I have indeed thought of it, Mr. Diggle, but----" "But me no buts," interrupted Diggle with a smile. "Your age is----" "Near sixteen." "Ah, still a boy; you have a year ere you reach the bourn of young manhood, as the Romans held it! But what matters that? Was not Scipio Africanus--namesake of the ingenuous youth that serves me--styled boy at twenty? Yet you are old enough to walk alone, and not in leading strings,--or waiting maybe for dead men’s shoes." "What do you mean, sir?" Desmond flashed out, reddening with indignation.