The minister, though silent as before, had regained his colour; and we were somewhat astonished when, the cloth being drawn and the company left to its wine and one dish of dessert, he rose and announced that he must be going.  He was decidedly better, but (so he excused himself) would feel easier at home in his own manse; and so, declining our host’s offer of a bed, he shook hands and bade us good-night.  The Laird accompanied him to the door, and in his absence I fell to peeling an apple, while my brother drummed with his fingers on the table and eyed the faded hangings.  I suppose that ten minutes elapsed before we heard the young man’s footsteps returning through the flagged hall and a woman’s voice uplifted.

“But had the minister any complaint, whatever—­to ride off without a word?  She could answer for the collops—­”

“Whist, woman!  Have done with your clashin’, ye doited old fool!” He slammed the door upon her, stepped to the table, and with a sullen frown poured himself a glass of wine.  His brow cleared as he drank it.  “I beg your pardon, gentlemen; but this indisposition of Mr. Saul has annoyed me.  He lives at the far end of the parish—­a good seven miles away—­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?”