“JOHN FOUNTAIN.”

On reading this letter Lucy formed an innocent scheme.  It had long been matter of regret to her that Aunt Bazalgette could not see the good qualities of Uncle Fountain, and Uncle Fountain of Aunt Bazalgette.  “It must be mere prejudice,” said she, “or why do I love them both?” She had often wished she could bring them together, and make them know one another better; they would find out one another’s good qualities then, and be friends.  But how?  As Shakespeare says, “Oxen and wain-ropes would not haul them, together.”

At last chance aided her—­Mrs. Bazalgette was at Font Abbey actually.  Lucy knew that if she announced Mr. Fountain’s expected return the B would fly off that minute, so she suppressed the information, and, giving up to young Arthur as she had to Mrs. B., moved into a still smaller room than the east room.

And now her heart quaked a little.  “But, after all, Uncle Fountain is a gentleman,” thought she, “and not capable of showing hostility to her under his own roof.  Here she is safe, though nowhere else; only I must see him, and explain to him before he sees her.”  With this view Lucy declined demurely her aunt’s proposal for a walk.  No, she must be excused; she had work to do in the drawing-room that could not be postponed.

“Work! that alters the case.  Let me see it.”  She took for granted it was some useful work—­something that could be worn when done.  “What! is this it—­these dirty parchments?  Oh!  I see; it is for that selfish old man; who but he would set a lady to parchments!”

“A bad guess,” cried Lucy, joyously.  “I found them myself, and set myself to work on them.”

“Don’t tell me!  He is at the bottom of it.  If it was for yourself you would give it up directly.  How amusing for me to see you work at that!” Lucy rose and brought her the new novel.  Mrs. Bazalgette took it and sat down to it, but she could not fix her attention long on it.  Ladies whose hearts are in dress have no taste for books, however frivolous; can’t sit them for above a second or two.  Mrs. Bazalgette fidgeted and fidgeted, and at last rose and left the room, book in hand.  “How unkind I am!” said Lucy to herself.

She was sitting sentinel till the carriage should arrive; then she could run down and prepare her uncle for his innocent and accidental visitor.  It would not be prudent to let him receive the information from a servant, or without the accompanying explanation.  This it was that made her so unnaturally firm when the little idle B pressed her to waste in play the shining hours.

Mrs. Bazalgette went book in hand to her bedroom, and had not been there long before she found employment.  Many of Lucy’s things were still in the wardrobes.  Mrs. B. rummaged them, inspected them at the window, and ended by ringing for her maid and trying divers of her niece’s dresses on.  “They make her dresses better than they do mine; they take more pains.”  At last she found one that was new to her, though Lucy had worn it several times at Font Abbey.