I wish we were to
moor alongside mother, instead of running into this strange port."
"Stuff! think of Miss Fountain's figure-head--nor tell too many
stories--and, above all, for heaven's sake, do keep the poor dear old
sea out of sight for once."
"Ay, ay, that stands to reason."
By this time they were at Font Abbey, and David deposited his fair
burden gently on the stone steps of the door. She opened it without
ceremony, and bustled into the dining-room, crying, "I have brought
David, sir; and here he is;" and she accompanied David's bow with a
corresponding movement of her hand, the knuckles downward.
The old gentleman awoke with a start, rubbed his eyes, shook hands
with the pair, and proposed to go up to Lucy in the drawing-room.
Now, it happened unluckily that Miss Fountain had been to the library
and taken down one or two of those men and women who, according to her
uncle, exist only on paper, and certain it is she was in charming
company when she heard her visitors' steps and voices coming up the
stairs. Had those visitors seen the vexed expression of her face as
she laid down the book they would have instantly 'bout ship and home
again; but that sour look dissolved away as they came through the open
door.
On coming in they saw a young lady seated on a sofa.
Apparently she did not see them enter. Her face _happened_ to be
averted; but, ere they had taken three steps, she turned her face, saw
them, rose, and took two steps to meet them, all beaming with
courtesy, kindness and quiet satisfaction at their arrival.
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