Oh, the nostalgia! I've had this book since I was a kid, and I've read it a number of times. It's the mental equivalent of warm, self-saucing chocolate pudding on a cold winter's day - a comfort read, where everything turns out well with the world thanks to ridiculously contrived coincidence. I do enjoy the fact that it privileges kindness and is so completely unashamed of doing so, but it hammers home wee Cedric's sweetness and light so heavily that it's saccharine enough to give an elephant diabetes. My favourite book of all time happens to be another of Burnett's books, The Secret Garden, and I have to acknowledge that in comparison to that Fauntleroy, while very well-written, just doesn't stack up. It's sickly sentimental and lacks the verve and bite of bitchy little Mary, but I enjoy it anyway... just like I enjoy that chocolate pudding.