What befell Uncle Fountain, busy enmeshing his cock and hen pheasant, netting a niece and a friend, went to the same tune, but in a lower key, as befitted a domestic tale.*
* “Domestic,” you are aware, is Latin for “tame.” Ex.,
“domestic fowl,” “domestic drama,” “story of domestic
intereet,” “or chronicle of small beer,”
Among his letters at breakfast-time came one which he had no sooner read than he flung on the table and went into a fury. Lucy sat aghast; then inquired in tender anxiety what was the matter.
Angry explanations are apt to be dark ones. “It is a confounded shame—it is a trick, child—it is a do.”
“Ah! what is that, uncle? 'a do'?—'a do'?”
“Yes, 'a do.' He knew I hated figures; can't bear the sight of them, and the cursed responsibility of adding them up right.”
“But who knew all this?”
“He came over here bursting with health, and asked me to be one of his executors—mind, one. I consented on a distinct understanding I was never to be called upon to act. He was twenty years my junior, and like so much mahogany. It was just a form; I did it to soothe a man who called himself my friend, and set his mind at rest.”
“But, uncle dear, I don't understand even now. Can it be possible that a friend has abused your good nature?”
“A little,” with an angry sneer.