"And is the secret told?" demanded Charlotte of her obedient husband and slave.
"Yes, dear, it is told," he answered gravely.
"I hope it is a pleasant secret."
"I do not think the knowledge of it will give you much pain, dearest. You have learnt to think yourself a—a kind of an heiress of late, have you not?"
"Papa—Mr. Sheldon—told me that I had a claim to some money; but I have not thought much about it, except that I should give you Grote and Macaulay in dark-brown calf, with bevelled boards and red edges, like that edition you saw at the auctioneer's in Bond Street, and have talked about ever since; and a horse, perhaps; and a glass porch to our cottage."
"Well, darling, the books in dark-brown calf, and the horse, and the glass porch, may all be ours in the future; but the money was only a dream—it has melted away, dear."
"Is that all?" asked Charlotte. "Why, I dare say the day will come when you will be as rich as Sir Walter Scott."
"In the meantime I have something to give you instead of the money."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; a cousin. Will that do as well, my love?"