It will be gathered from our last extract that Mr. Crisp was not yet in possession of the great secret. Fanny dreaded the edge of his criticism, even more than she had dreaded the chill of her father’s contempt. Dr. Burney arrived at the Hall to fetch away his daughter on the first Saturday in August, and it was agreed between them that a disclosure could no longer be deferred. “My dear father,” says the Diary, “desired to take upon himself the communication to my Daddy Crisp, and as it is now in so many hands that it is possible accident might discover it to him, I readily consented. Sunday evening, as I was going into my father’s room, I heard him say, ‘The variety of characters, the variety of scenes, and the language—why, she has had very little education but what she has given herself—less than any of the others!’ and Mr. Crisp exclaimed, ‘Wonderful! it’s wonderful!’ I now found what was going forward, and therefore deemed it most fitting to decamp. About an hour after, as I was passing through the hall, I met my Daddy Crisp. His face was all animation and archness; he doubled his fist at me, and would have stopped me, but I ran past him into the parlour. Before supper, however, I again met him, and he would not suffer me to escape; he caught both my hands, and looked as if he would have looked me through, and then exclaimed, ‘Why, you little hussy, ain’t you ashamed to look me in the face, you ‘Evelina,’ you! Why, what a dance have you led me about it! Young friend, indeed! Oh, you little hussy, what tricks have you served me!’ I was obliged to allow of his running on with these gentle appellations for I know not how long, ere he could sufficiently compose himself, after his great surprise, to ask or hear any particulars; and then he broke out every three instants with exclamations of astonishment at how I had found time to write so much unsuspected, and how and where I had picked up such various materials; and not a few times did he, with me, as he had with my father, exclaim, ‘Wonderful!’ He has since made me read him all my letters upon this subject. He said Lowndes would have made an estate, had he given me £1,000 for it, and that he ought not to have given less. ‘You have nothing to do now,’ continued he, ‘but to take your pen in hand, for your fame and reputation are made, and any bookseller will snap at what you write.’”