The senior groaned. (“'Mule I.' I should have said.”)
And so they cut and dried it all.
The last evening came, and with it, just before dinner, a line by special messenger from Mr. Talboys. “He could not come that evening. His brother had just arrived from India; they had not met for seven years. He could not set him to dine alone.”
After dinner, in the middle of her uncle's nap, in came Lucy, and, unheard-of occurrence—deed of dreadful note—woke him. She was radiant, and held a note from Eve. “Good news, uncle; those good, kind Dodds! they are coming to tea.”
“What?” and he wore a look of consternation. Recollecting, however, that Talboys was not to be there, he was indifferent again. But when he read the note he longed for his self-invited visitors. It ran thus:
“DEAR MISS FOUNTAIN—David has found out the genealogy. He says there is no doubt you came from the Fountains of Melton, and he can prove it. He has proved it to me, and I am none the wiser. So, as David is obliged to go away to-morrow, I think the best way is for me to bring him over with the papers to-night. We will come at eight, unless you have company.”
“He is a worthy young man,” shouted Mr. Fountain. “What o'clock is it?”
“Very nearly eight. Oh, uncle, I am so glad. How pleased you will be!”
The Dodds arrived soon after, and while tea was going on David spread his parchments on the table and submitted his proofs. He had eked out the other evidence by means of a series of leases. The three fields that went with Font Abbey had been let a great many times, and the landlord's name, Fountain in the latter leases, was Fontaine in those of remoter date. David even showed his host the exact date at which the change of orthography took place. “You are a shrewd young gentleman,” cried Mr. Fountain, gleefully.
David then asked him what were the names of his three meadows. The names of them? He didn't know they had any.