Thus, under the smooth surface of the little society at Font Abbey finesse was cannily at work.  But the surface of every society is like the skin of a man—­hides a deal of secret machinery.

Here were two undermining a “coy jade” (perhaps, on the whole, Uncle Fountain, it might be more prudent in you not to call her that name again; you see she is my heroine, and I am a man that could cut you out of this story, and nobody miss you), and the coy jade watching for the miners like a sweet little velvet panther, and, to fling away metaphor, an honest heart set aching sore, hard by, for having come among such a lot.

CHAPTER VI.

A FABLE tells us a fowler one day saw sitting in tree a wood-pigeon.  This is a very shy bird, so he had to creep and maneuver to get within gunshot unseen, unheard.  He stole from tree to tree, and muffled his footsteps in the long grass so adroitly that, just as he was going to pull the trigger, he stepped light as a feather on a venomous snake.  It bit; he died.

This is instructive and pointed, but a trifle severe.

What befell Uncle Fountain, busy enmeshing his cock and hen pheasant, netting a niece and a friend, went to the same tune, but in a lower key, as befitted a domestic tale.*

* “Domestic,” you are aware, is Latin for “tame.”  Ex., “domestic fowl,” “domestic drama,” “story of domestic intereet,” “or chronicle of small beer,”

Among his letters at breakfast-time came one which he had no sooner read than he flung on the table and went into a fury.  Lucy sat aghast; then inquired in tender anxiety what was the matter.

Angry explanations are apt to be dark ones.  “It is a confounded shame—­it is a trick, child—­it is a do.”

“Ah! what is that, uncle? ’a do’?—­’a do’?”

“Yes, ‘a do.’  He knew I hated figures; can’t bear the sight of them, and the cursed responsibility of adding them up right.”

“But who knew all this?”

“He came over here bursting with health, and asked me to be one of his executors—­mind, one.  I consented on a distinct understanding I was never to be called upon to act.  He was twenty years my junior, and like so much mahogany.  It was just a form; I did it to soothe a man who called himself my friend, and set his mind at rest.”

“But, uncle dear, I don’t understand even now.  Can it be possible that a friend has abused your good nature?”

“A little,” with an angry sneer.

“Has he betrayed your confidence?”

“Hasn’t he?”

“Oh dear!  What has he done?”

“Died, that is all,” snarled the victim.

“Oh, uncle!  Poor man!”

“Poor man, no doubt.  But how about poor me?  Why, it turns out I am sole executor.”

“But, dear uncle, how could the poor soul help dying?”

“That is not candid, Lucy,” said Mr. Fountain, severely.  “Did ever I say he could help dying?  But he could help coming here under false colors, a mahogany face, and trapping his friend.”