“No, I shouldn’t like it,” said Valentine abruptly.  Mr. Craik was not sure whether his evident shrinking was due to some low-church scruple as to any dedication at all, or whether the name of the sainted Elizabeth had startled him by reminding him of self-renunciation and a self-denial even to the death, of all that in this world we love and long for.  This Elizabeth, his grandmother, might have been a saintly old woman in her conversation, her patience, her piety, for anything Valentine knew to the contrary, but he had hold now of all her accounts; he knew from them, and from investigations made among the tenants, that she had held a hard grip of her possessions, had sometimes driven shrewd bargains, and even up to her extreme old age had often shown herself rather more than a match for some of those about her.  Things to be done by others she had seen to with vigilance, things to be done by herself she had shown a masterly power of leaving undone.  Her property had considerably increased during her term of possession, though in ordinary charity a good deal had been given away.  All was in order, and her heir whom she had never seen was reaping the fruits of her judgment and her savings; but whether she ought to be called a saint he rather doubted.

He had returned to Melcombe, not without shrewd suspicions that his cousin was soon to be his brother-in-law.  A letter following closely on his steps had confirmed them.  Some time in September he expected a summons to be present at the wedding; he wished after that to travel for several months, so he allowed Mr. Craik to persuade him that his good intentions ought not to be put off, and he made arrangements for the commencement of the new church at once.

It was to cost about three thousand pounds, a large sum; but the payment was to be spread over three or four years, and Valentine, at present, had few other claims.  He had, for instance, no poor relations, at least he thought 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.”