That embarrassment would inevitably come, if he went on at his present rate of living, he had the satisfaction of knowing beyond all doubt.  That was not the worst point upon his conscience.  Of the plans and projects that Lionel had so eagerly formed when he came into the estate, some were set afloat, some were not.  Those that were most wanted—­that were calculated to do the most real good—­lay in abeyance; others, that might have waited, were in full work.  Costly alterations were making in the stables at Verner’s Pride, and the working man’s institute at Deerham—­reading-room, club, whatever it was to be—­was progressing swimmingly.  But the draining of the land near the poor dwellings was not begun, and the families, many of them, still herded in consort—­father and mother, sons and daughters, sleeping in one room—­compelled to it by the wretched accommodation of the tenements.  It was on this last score that Lionel was feeling a pricking of conscience.  And how to find the money to make these improvements now, he knew not.  Between the building in progress and Sibylla, he was drained.

A circumstance had occurred that day to bring the latter neglect forcibly to his mind.  Alice Hook—­Hook the labourer’s eldest daughter—­had, as the Deerham phrase ran, got herself into trouble.  A pretty child she had grown up amongst them—­she was little more than a child now—­good-tempered, gay-hearted.  Lionel had heard the ill news the previous week on his return from London.  When he was out shooting that morning he saw the girl at a distance, and made some observation to his gamekeeper, Broom, to the effect that it had vexed him.

“Ay, sir, it’s a sad pity,” was Broom’s answer; “but what else can be expected of poor folks that’s brought up to live as they do—­like pigs in a sty?”

Broom had intended no reproach to his master; such an impertinence would not have crossed his mind; but the words carried a sting to Lionel.  He knew how many, besides Alice Hook, had had their good conduct undermined through the living “like pigs in a sty.”  Lionel had, as you know, a lively conscience; and his brow reddened with self-reproach as he sat and thought these things over.  He could not help comparing the contrast:  Verner’s Pride, with its spacious bedrooms, one of which was not deemed sufficient for the purposes of retirement, where two people slept together, but a dressing-closet must be attached; and those poor Hooks, with their growing-up sons and daughters, and but one room, save the kitchen, in their whole dwelling!

“I will put things on a better footing,” impulsively exclaimed Lionel.  “I care not what the cost may be, or how it may fall upon my comforts, do it I will.  I declare, I feel as if the girl’s blight lay at my own door!”

Again he and his reflections were interrupted by Tynn.

“Roy has come up, sir, and is asking to see you.”

“Roy!  Let him come in,” replied Lionel.  “I want to see him.”