“Not you, you young rogue; you are not her uncle.” The old gentleman then stole up at the back of the seat, followed with respectful curiosity by Arthur. She happened to move as the senior got near; so, for fear she was going to wake of herself and baffle the surprise, he made a rush and rubbed his beard a little roughly against Mrs. Bazalgette's cheek. Up starts that lady, who was not fast asleep, but only under the influence of the domestic tale, utters a scream, and, when she sees her ravisher, goes into a passion. “How dare you? What is the meaning of this insult?” “How came you here?” was the reply, in an equally angry tone. “Can't a lady come into your little misery of a garden without being outraged?” “It isn't the garden--it is only the back garden,” cried the proprietor of Font Hill; _“(blesse)_ I'll swear that is my niece's gown; so you've invaded that, too.” “Aunt Bazalgette--Uncle Fountain, it was my fault,” sighed a piteous voice. This was Lucy, who had just come on the scene. “Dear uncle, forgive me; it was I who invited her.” Lucy's pathetic tones, which were fast degenerating into sobs, were agreeably interrupted. At one and the same moment the man and woman of the world took a new view of the situation, looked at one another, and burst out laughing. Both these carried a safety-valve against choler--a trait that takes us into many follies, but keeps us out of others--a sense of humor. The next thing to relieve the situation was the senior's comprehensive vanity. He must recover young Arthur's reverence, which was doubtless dissolving all this time. “Now, Arthur,” he whispered, “take a lesson from a gentleman of the old school. I hate this she-devil; but this is at my house, so--observe.” He then strutted jauntily and feebly up to Mrs. Bazalgette: “Madam, my niece says you are her guest; but permit me to dispute her title to that honor.” Mrs. Bazalgette smiled agreeably. She wanted to stay a day or two at Font Abbey. The senior flourished out his arm. “Let me show you what _we_ call the garden here.” She took his arm graciously. “I shall be delighted, sir [pompous old fool!].” Mrs. Bazalgette steeled her mind to admire the garden, and would have done so with ease if it had been hideous. But, unfortunately, it was pretty--prettier than her own; had grassy slopes, a fountain, a grotto, variegated beds, and beds a blaze of one color (a fashion not common at that time); item, a brook with waterlilies on its bosom. “This brook is not mine, strictly speaking,” said her host; “I borrowed it of my neighbor.” The lady opened her eyes; so he grinned and revealed a characteristic transaction. A quarter of a century ago he had found the brook flowing through a meadow close to his garden hedge. He applied for a lease of the meadow, and was refused by the proprietor in the following terms: “What is to become of my cows?”