"You seemed to be having a conversation a moment ago," said Desmond.

"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 plowshare
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