And Lionel, like other new schemers, was red-hot upon them.  He drew out plans in his head and with his pencil; he consulted architects, he spent half his days with builders.  Lionel was astonished at the mean, petty acts of past tyranny, exercised by Roy, which came to light, far more than he had had any idea of.  He blushed for himself and for his uncle, that such a state of things had been allowed to go on; he wondered that it could have gone on; that he had been blind to so much of it, or that the men had not exercised Lynch law upon Roy.

Roy had taken his place in the brick-yard as workman; but Lionel, in the anger of the moment, when these things came out, felt inclined to spurn him from the land.  He would have done it but for his promise to the man himself; and for the pale, sad face of Mrs. Roy.  In the hour when his anger was at its height, the woman came up to Verner’s Pride, stealthily, as it seemed, and craved him to write to Australia, “now he was a grand gentleman,” and ask the “folks over there” if they could send back news of her son.  “It’s going on of a twelvemonth since he writed to us, sir, and we don’t know where to write to him, and I’m a’most fretted into my grave.”

“My opinion is that he is coming home,” said Lionel.

“Heaven sink the ship first!” she involuntarily muttered, and then she burst into a violent flood of tears.

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Lionel.  “Don’t you want him to come home?”

“No, sir.  No.”

“But why?  Are you fearing”—­he jumped to the most probable solution of her words that he could suggest—­“are you fearing that he and Roy would not agree?—­that there would be unpleasant scenes between them, as there used to be?”

The woman had her face buried in her hands, and she never lifted it as she answered, in a stifled voice, “It’s what I’m a-fearing, sir.”

Lionel could not quite understand her.  He thought her more weak and silly than usual.

“But he is not coming home,” she resumed.  “No, sir, I don’t believe that England will ever see him again; and it’s best as it is, for there’s nothing but care and sorrow here, in the old country.  But I’d like to know what’s become of him; whether he is alive or dead, whether he is starving or in comfort.  Oh, sir!” she added, with a burst of wailing anguish, “write for me, and ask news of him!  They’d answer you.  My heart is aching for it.”

He did not explain to her then, how very uncertain was the fate of emigrants to that country, how next to impossible it might be to obtain intelligence of an obscure young man like Luke; he contented himself with giving her what he thought would be better comfort.

“Mrs. Frederick Massingbird will be returning in the course of a few months, and I think she may bring news of him.  Should she not, I will see what inquiries can be made.”

“Will she be coming soon, sir?”

“In two or three months, I should suppose.  The Misses West may be able to tell you more definitely, if they have heard from her.”