ought not; but he had scarcely given his word for the building of
the church when he received a letter from Mrs. Peter Melcombe--"an ugly
name," thought Valentine. "Mrs. Valentine Melcombe will sound much
better. Oh, I suppose the young woman will be Mrs. Melcombe, though."
Mrs. Peter Melcombe let Valentine know that she and Laura had returned
to England, and would now gladly accept his invitation, given in the
spring, to come and stay a few weeks with him whenever this should be
the case.

"I have always considered Laura a sacred trust," continued the good
lady. "My poor dear Peter, having left her to me--my means are by no
means large--and I am just now feeling it my duty to consider a certain
very kind and very flattering offer. I am not at all sure that a
marriage with one whom I could esteem might not help me to bear better
the sorrow of my loss in my dear child; but I have decided nothing.
Laura has actually only five hundred pounds of her own, and that, I need
not say, leaves her as dependent on me as if she was a daughter."

"Now look here," exclaimed Valentine, laying the letter down flat on the
table, and holding it there with his hand--"now look here, this is
serious. You are going to bring that simpleton Laura to me, and you
would like to leave her here, would you? Preposterous! She cannot live
with me! Besides, I am such a fool myself, that if I was shut up with
her long, I should certainly marry her. Take a little time, Val, and
consider.

"'Wilt them brave?
Or wilt thou bribe?
Or wilt thou cheat the kelpie?'

"Let me see. Laura is my own cousin, and the only Melcombe. Now, if Craik
had any sense of gratitude--but he hasn't--it seems so natural, 'I built
you a church, you marry my cousin. Do I hear you say you won't? You'd
better think twice about that. I'd let you take a large slice of the
turnip-field into your back garden. Turnips, I need hardly add, you'd
have _ad lib._ (very wholesome vegetables), and you'd have all that
capital substantial furniture now lying useless in these attics, and an
excellent family mangle out of the messuage or tenement called the
laundry--the wedding breakfast for nothing. I think you give in, Craik?'
Yes; we shake hands--he has tears in his eyes. 'Now, Laura, what have
you got to say?' '_He has sandy hair._' 'Of course he has, the true
Saxon colour. Go down on your knees, miss, and thank heaven fasting for
a good man's love (Shakespeare).' '_And he has