"What do you mean?" asked Larry, eyeing her with undisguised surprise.

"Well," said Christian, slowly, gazing across the valley with eyes
more than ever like the clearest brown stream, "you've got to begin
with the individual. After all, Ireland is made up of individuals, and
each of them contributes in some way to the big result. It seems to me
that the real Spirit of the Nation is--is--"

Her gaze at the far woods became fixed, and her hands ceased to play
with the soft, tan ears.

"Is what?" said Larry, rather impatiently. He was bewildered by this
grave, young debater, and was trying to reconcile her with the child
he had left behind him last year, or even with the child who, five
minutes ago, had wished to impress a comprehensive kiss on all the
hounds at once. Moreover, a young gentleman on the imminent verge of
official manhood, is justified in resenting ideas, in opposition to
his own, being offered to him by a little girl, with her hair only
just "up," whom he regards as no more than a niece, or thereabouts.

"Well," said Christian, still more slowly, her eyes lifting from the
woods and resting on a shining snowball of a cloud, "it's Religious
Intolerance, I think! That seems to me the Spirit of the Nation--my
side as bad as yours, and yours as bad as mine--"

"Oh, the parsons and the priests," said Larry, airily. "Oh you wait,
Christian! You don't know! You've been stuck down here in a hole. If
you met Father Nugent--"