The two postboys lifted their whips level to their eyes by one
instinct, the horses tightened the traces, the wheels ground the
gravel, and Lucy was whirled away with that quiet, emphatic post-dict
ringing in her ears,

Remember!


Font Hill was sixty miles off: they reached it in less than six hours.
There was Uncle Fountain on the hall steps to receive her, and the
comely housekeeper, Mrs. Brown, ducking and smiling in the background.
While the servants were unpacking the carriage, Mr. Fountain took Lucy
to her bedroom. Mrs. Brown had gone on before to see for the third
time whether all was comfortable. There was a huge fire, all red; and
on the table a gigantic nosegay of spring flowers, with smell to them
all.

"Oh how nice, after a journey!" said Lucy, mowing down Uncle Fountain
and Mrs. Brown with one comprehensive smile.

Mrs. Brown flamed with complacency.

"What!" cried her uncle; "I suppose you expected a black fire and
impertinent apologies by way of substitute for warmth; a stuffy room,
and damp sheets, roasted, like a woodcock, twenty minutes before use."

"No, uncle, dear, I expected every comfort at Font Abbey." Brown
retired with a courtesy.

"Aha! What! you have found out that it is all humbug about old