Now Uncle Fountain could prove himself the shoot of George his father
(a step at which so many pedigrees halt), who was the shoot of
William, who was the shoot of Richard; but here came a gap of eighty
years between him and that Fountain, younger son of Melton, to whom he
wanted to hook on. Now the logic of women, children, and criticasters
is a thing of gaps; they reason as marches a kangaroo; but to
mathematicians, logicians, and genealogists, a link wanting is a chain
broken. This blank then made Uncle Fountain miserable, and he cried
out for help. Lucy came with her young eyes, her woman's patience, and
her own complaisance. A great ditch yawned between a crocheteer and a
rotten branch he coveted. Our Quinta Curtia flung herself, her
eyesight, and her time into that ditch.
Twelve o'clock came, and found them still wallowing in modern
antiquity.
"Bless me!" cried Mr. Fountain when John brought up the bed-candles,
"how time flies when one is really employed."
"Yes, indeed, uncle;" and by a gymnastic of courtesy she first crushed
and then so molded a yawn that it glided into society a smile.
"We have spent a delightful evening, Lucy."
"Thanks to you, uncle."
"I hope you will sleep well, child."
"I am sure I shall, dear," said she, sweetly and inadvertently.
CHAPTER II.
A LARGE aspiration is a rarity; but who has not some small ambition,
none the less keen for being narrow--keener, perhaps? Mrs. Bazalgette
burned to be great by dress; Mr.
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