"
"Nothing, mother, as usual."
A mother's ears are quick; and Mrs. Burke detected the quiver that
Desmond tried to still. She tightened her clasp on his hot hand.
"Did he strike you, dear?"
"It was nothing, mother. I am used to that."
"My poor boy! But what angered him? Why do you offend your brother?"
"Offend him!" exclaimed the boy passionately, but still in a low tone.
"Everything I do offends him. I went to see General Clive; I wished to;
that is enough for Dick. Mother, I am sick of it all."
"Never mind, dear. A little patience. Dick doesn't understand you. You
should humor him, Desmond."
"Haven't I tried, mother? Haven't I? But what is the use? He treats me
worse than any carter on the farm. I drudge for him, and he bullies me,
miscalls me before the men, thrashes me--oh, mother! I can't endure it
any longer. Let me go away, anywhere; anything would be better than
this!"
Desmond was quivering with pain and indignation; only with difficulty did
he keep back the tears.
"Hush, Desmond!" said his mother. "Dick will hear you. You are tired out,
dear boy; go to bed; things will look brighter in the morning. Only have
patience. Good night, my son."
Desmond kissed his mother and went to his room. But it was long before he
slept. His bruised body found no comfort; his head throbbed; his soul was
filled with resentment and the passionate longing for release.
His life had not been very happy. He barely remembered his father--a big,
keen-eyed, loud-voiced old man--who died when his younger son was four
years old.
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