“That one of that house came here, and brought the E along with him that has got dropped somehow since, and, being so far from his birthplace, he thought he would have one or two of the old names about him. What will you bet me he hasn't shot more than one brace of partridges on those fields about Melton when he was a boy? So he christened your three fields afresh, and the new names took; likely he made a point of it with the people in the village. For all that, I have found one old fellow who stands out against them to this day. His name is Newel. He will persist in calling the field next to your house Snap Witcheloe. 'That is what my grandfather allus named it,' says he, 'and that is the name it went by afore there was ever a Fountain in this ere parish.' I have looked in the Parish Register, and I see Newel's grandfather was born in 1690. Now, sir, all this is not mathematical proof; but, when you come to add it to your own direct proofs, that carry you within a cable's length of Port Fontaine, it is very convincing; and, not to pay out too much yarn, I'll bet--my head--to a China orange--” “David, don't be vulgar.” “Never mind, Mr. Dodd--be yourself.” “Well, then, to serve Eve out, I'll bet her head (and that is a better one than mine) to a China orange that Fontaine and Fountain are one, and that the first Fontaine came over here from Melton more than one hundred and thirty years ago, and less than one hundred and forty, when Newel's grandfather was a young man.” _“Probatum est,”_ shouted old Fountain, his eyes sparkling, his voice trembling with emotion. “Miss Fontaine,” said he, turning to Lucy, throwing a sort of pompous respect into his voice and manner, “you shall never marry any man that cannot give you as good a home as Melton, and quarter as good a coat of arms with you as your own, the Founteyns'.” David's heart took a chill as if an ice-arrow had gone through it. “So join me to thank our young friend here.” Mr. Fountain held out his hand. David gave his mechanically in return, scarcely knowing what he did. “You are a worthy and most intelligent young man, and you have made an old man as happy as a lord,” said the old gentleman, shaking him warmly. “And there is my hand, too,” said Lucy, putting out hers with a blush, “to show you I bear you no malice for being more unselfish and more sagacious than us all.” Instantly David's cold chill fled unreasonably. His cheeks burned with blushes, his eyes glowed, his heart thumped, and the delicate white, supple, warm, velvet hand that nestled in his shot electric tremors through his whole frame, when glided, with well-bred noiselessness, through the open door, Mr. Talboys, and stood looking yellow at that ardent group, and the massive yet graceful bare arm stretched across the table, and the white hand melting into the brown one.