"It is one of those things," said Ralph, "in which a man should never despair as long as there is a possibility." "Ah, yes; people say so. I don't believe in that kind of perseverance myself;--at any rate not with her. She knows her own mind,--as well as I know mine. I think I promised her that I would trouble her no more." "Promises like that are mere pie-crusts," said Ralph. "Give her my love;--that's all. And don't do that unless you're alone with her. I shall live it down some day, no doubt, but to tell the truth I have made up my mind not to marry. I'm half inclined to think that a clergyman shouldn't marry. There are some things which our ancestors understood pretty well, although we think they were such fools. I should like to see the new cousin, certainly." Ralph said nothing more about the new cousin; and was perhaps hardly aware how greatly the idea of again seeing the new cousin had enhanced the pleasure of his journey to London. About a week after this he started, having devoted nearly all the afternoon before he went to the packing of a large basket of ferns,--to each root or small bundle of which was appended a long name in Latin,--as an offering to Patience Underwood. And yet he did not care very much for Patience Underwood. It was just the end of September,--the last day of September, when he reached London. Ralph the heir was out of town, and the servant at his lodging professed she did not know where he was. She thought it probable that he was "at Mr. 'Orsball's,--Mr. 'Orsball of the Moonbeam, Barnfield,--a-looking after his 'orses." She suggested this, not from any knowledge in her possession, but because Ralph was always believed to go to the Moonbeam when he left town. He would, however, be back next week. His namesake, therefore, did not consider that it would be expedient for him to follow the heir down to the Moonbeam.