Sir John Devereux Vincent, after a long minority, had at length shaken off his guardians, and become master of his own doings, and of Hurstley Hall.  The property was in pretty decent order, and funds had accumulated vastly:  all this notwithstanding a thousand peculations, and the suspicious incident that one of the guardians was a “highly respectable” solicitor.  Sir John, like most new brooms, had with the best intentions resolved upon sweeping measures of great good; especially also upon doing a great deal with his own eyes and ears; but, like as aforesaid, he was permitted neither to hear nor see any truths at all.  Just now, the usual night’s work took him a little off the hooks, and we must make allowances; really, too, he was by far the soberest of all those choice spirits, and drank and played as little as he could; and even, under existing disadvantages, he managed by four o’clock post meridiem to inspect a certain portion of the estate duly every day, under the prudential guidance of his bailiff Jennings.  There, that good-looking, tall young fellow on the blood mare just cantering up to us is Sir John; the other two are a couple of the gallant youths now feasting at the Hall:  ay, two of the fiercest foes in last night’s broil.  Those heated little matters are easily got over.

“Hollo, Jennings! what the devil made you give that start? you couldn’t look more horrified if ghosts were at your elbow:  why, your face is the picture of death; look another way, man, do, or my mare will bolt.”

“I beg your pardon, Sir John, but the spasm took me:  it is my infirmity; forgive it.  This meadow, you perceive, Sir John, requires drainage, and afterwards I propose to dress it with free chalk to sweeten the grass.  Next field, you will take notice, the guano—­”

“Well, well—­Jennings—­and that poor fellow there up to his knees in mud, is he pretty tolerably off now?”

“Oh, your honour,” said the bailiff, with a knowing look, “I only wish that half the little farmers hereabouts were as well to do as he is:  a pretty cottage, Sir John, half an acre of garden, and twelve shillings a week, is pretty middling for a single man.”

“Aha—­is it?—­well; but the poor devil looks wretched enough too—­I will just ask him if he wants any thing now.”

“Don’t, Sir John, pray don’t; pray permit me to advise your honour:  these men are always wanting.  ‘Acton’s cottage’ is a proverb; and Roger there can want for nothing honestly; nevertheless, as I know your honour’s good heart, and wish to make all happy, if you will suffer me to see to it myself—­”

“Certainly, Jennings, do, do by all means, and thank you:  here, just to make a beginning, as we’re all so jolly at the Hall, and that poor fellow’s up to his neck in mud, give him this from me to drink my health with.”

Acton, who had dutifully held aloof, and kept on digging steadily, was still quite near enough to hear all this; at the magical word “give,” he looked up hurriedly, and saw Sir John Vincent toss a piece of gold—­yes, on his dying oath, a bright new sovereign—­to Simon Jennings.  O blessed vision, and gold was to be his at last!