“Well, love, the fact is, I was passing here on my way home from Devonshire, and I wanted particularly to speak to you, so I thought I would venture just to pop in for a passing call, and lo! I find the old ogre is absent, and not expected back for ever so long, so I have installed myself at his Font Abbey, partly out of love for you, dear, partly, I confess it, out of hate to him. You will write and tell me his face when he comes home and hears I have been living and enjoying myself in his den. I ordered my imperial into his bedroom. I took it for granted that would be the only comfortable one in his house.” “Aunt Bazalgette!” cried Lucy, turning pale; “oh, aunt, what will become of us?” “Don't be frightened; the gray-haired monster that dyes his whiskers, and gets him up to look only sixty, interposed and forbade the consecration.” “I am glad of it. You shall sleep in mine, dear, and I will go into the east room. It is a sweet little room.” “Is it? then why not put me there?” Lucy colored a little. “I think mine would suit you better, dear, because it is larger and airier, and--” “I see. As you please; you know I never make difficulties.” “And how long have you been here, aunt?” “About three hours.” “Three hours, and not send for me! I was only in the village. Did no one tell you?” “Yes; but you know it is not my way to make a fuss and put people out. How could I tell? You might be agreeably employed, and I was sure of you before bedtime.” Mighty-fine! but the truth is, she came to Font Abbey to pry. She had heard a vague report about Lucy and a gentleman.