One morning Desmond set out for a long walk in the direction of Newport.  It was holiday on the farm; Richard Burke allowed his men a day off once every half year when he paid his rent.  They would almost rather not have had it, for he made himself particularly unpleasant both before and after.  On this morning he had got up in a bad temper, and managed to find half a dozen occasions for grumbling at Desmond before breakfast, so that the boy was glad to get away and walk off his resentment and soreness of heart.

As he passed the end of the lane leading toward the Hall, he saw two men in conversation some distance down it.  One was on horseback, the other on foot.  At a second glance he saw with surprise that the mounted man was his brother; the other, Diggle.  A well-filled moneybag hung at Richard Burke’s saddle bow; he was on his way to the Hall to pay his rent.  His back was towards Desmond; but, as the latter paused, Richard threw a rapid glance over his shoulder, and with a word to the man at his side cantered away.

Diggle gave Desmond a hail and came slowly up the lane, his face wearing its usual pleasant smile.  His manner was always very friendly, and had the effect of making Desmond feel on good terms with himself.

“Well met, my friend,” said Diggle cordially.  “I was longing for a chat.  Beshrew me if I have spoken more than a dozen words today, and that, to a man of my sociable temper, not to speak of my swift and practised tongue—­lingua celer et exercitata:  you remember the phrase of Tully’s—­is a sore trial.”

“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 offend you.”