-and I had invited him expressly to talk of parish affairs."

"I believe," said I, "you and he are not of the same religion?"

"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 afterwar