Also she had been rubbing up her boarding-school French, and hoped to take a trip to Paris, for she wanted to give herself and her son all the advantages that could be got with money.  She knew there was something provincial about herself and her sister-in-law, as there had been about the old grandmother; and indeed about all the Melcombes.  She wished to rise; and oh what should she do, how could she ever get over it, if Laura married the plumber?

Her distress was such that she took the only course which could have availed her—­she was silent.

“I was afraid, dear, you might, you would, you must think it very imprudent,” said Laura, a little struck by this silence; “but what is to be done?  Amelia, he’s dying for me.”

Still Mrs. Melcombe was silent.

“He told me himself, that if I wouldn’t have him it would drive him to drink.”

“Laura!” exclaimed Mrs. Melcombe with vehemence, “it’s not credible that you can take up with a lout who courts you in such fashion as that.  O Laura!” she exclaimed in such distress as to give real pathos to her manner, “I little thought to see this day, I could not have believed it of you;” and she burst into an agony of tears.

“And here’s a letter,” she presently found voice enough to say, “here’s a letter from Mr. Mortimer, to say that his brother’s coming to look at the house.  Perhaps Mr. John Mortimer will come with him.  Oh, what shall I do if they hear of this?”

Laura was very much impressed.  If scorn, or anger, or incredulity had confronted her, she would have held to her intentions; but this alarm and grief at least had the merit of allowing all importance to the affair, and consequently to her.

Her imagination conjured up visions of her sister-in-law’s future years.  She saw her always wringing her hands, and she was touched for her.  “And then so happy as we meant to be, having a foreign tour, and seeing Paris, and so as we had talked it over together.  And such friends as we always are.”

This was perfectly true; Mrs. Melcombe and Laura were not of the nagging order of women, they never said sarcastic or ill-natured things to one another, the foibles of the one suited the other; and if they had a few uncomfortable words now and then between themselves, they had enough esprit de corps to hide this from all outsiders.

An affecting scene took place, Laura rose and threw herself into Amelia’s arms weeping passionately.

“You’ll give it up, Laura dear, for my sake, and for our poor dear Peter’s sake, who’s gone.”

No; Laura could not go quite so far in heroic self-sacrifice as that; but she did promise solemnly, that however many times Joseph might say he was dying for her, she would—­what?  She would promise to decide nothing till she had been to Paris.