"Eh?" He seemed to be wondering how I had guessed. "No, I was bred a Catholic. In our branch we have always held to the Old Religion. But that doesn't prevent my wishing to stand well with my neighbours and do my duty towards them. What disheartens me is, they won't see it." He pushed the wine aside, and for a while, leaning his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his knuckles, stared gloomily before him. Then, with sudden boyish indignation, he burst out: "It's an infernal shame; that's it--an infernal shame! I haven't been home here a twelvemonth, and the people avoid me like a plague. What have I done? My father wasn't popular--in fact, they hated him. But so did I. And he hated me, God knows: misused my mother, and wouldn't endure me in his presence. All my miserable youth I've been mewed up in a school in England--a private seminary. Ugh? what a den it was, too! My mother died calling for me--I was not allowed to come: I hadn't seen her for three years. And now, when the old tyrant is dead, and I come home meaning--so help me!--to straighten things out and make friends--come home, to the poverty you pretend not to notice, though it stares you in the face from every wall--come home, only asking to make the best of of it, live on good terms with my fellows, and be happy for the first time in my life--damn them, they won't fling me a kind look! What have I _done_?--that's what I want to know. The queer thing is, they behaved more decently at first. There's that Gillespie, who brought you ashore: he came over the first week, offered me shooting, was altogether as pleasant as could be. I quite took to the fellow. Now, when we meet, he looks the other way! If he has anything against me, he might at least explain: it's all I ask. What have I done?" Throughout this outburst I sat slicing my apple and taking now and then a glance at the speaker. It was all so hotly and honestly boyish! He only wanted justice. I know something of youngsters, and recognised the cry. Justice! It's the one thing every boy claims confidently as his right, and probably the last thing on earth he will ever get. And this boy looked so handsome, too, sitting in his father's chair, petulant, restive under a weight too heavy (as anyone could see) for his age. I couldn't help liking him. My brother told me afterwards that I pounced like any recruiting-sergeant. This I do not believe. But what, after a long pause, I said was this: "If you are innocent or unconscious of offending, you can only wait for your neighbours to explain themselves. Meanwhile, why not leave them? Why not travel, for instance?" "Travel!" he echoed, as much as to say, "You ought to know, without my telling, that I cannot afford it." "Travel," I repeated; "see the world, rub against men of your age. You might by the way do some fighting." He opened his eyes wide. I saw the sudden idea take hold of him, and again I liked what I saw.