“John likes it,” Honor said, turning round with a smile that disclosed two rows of pearly teeth, and which ought to have mollified the sour old lady’s temper. “I never should have thought of riding if it hadn’t been for John, and now I do love it so! I don’t think I ever liked anything half so much.” “You’d like anything that kep you idle, that’s my belief. You’d leave everything for other people to do, you would. Anybody else may slave themselves to death, so as you keep your hands white and don’t bend your back to work.” “Now, that _is_ hard,” replied Honor, trying to laugh off the old woman’s irritation. “I won’t bear any more of John’s sins! Why, don’t you remember, mother”--she called her so, to please John--“don’t you remember how he came home one day and found me rubbing the table, and how angry he was, and how he said that neither you nor I were ever to do such things again, for that, thank God, he was rich enough to pay for servants to do the housework? Dear John! he always tries to please everybody.” “More fool he! Everybody indeed! That’s the sort of thing that brings people to the workhouse. _I_ was brought up different. _I_ never could see, not I, the good of young people being idle. Work keeps ’em out of mischief, and hinders white hands, which ain’t of no use as far as I can see, except to make the gentlemen stare at ’em.” It was perhaps fortunate for Honor that the old lady could not see the crimson blush that mantled over cheek and brow at this coarse and uncalled-for remark. Had that been the case, Mrs. Beacham would have suspected--what was indeed the truth--that her daughter-in-law was quite conscious of, and felt indeed rather gratified by, the fact that one gentleman at least had both looked at and admired the taper fingers, white and soft as those of the finest lady in the land, to which Mrs. Beacham alluded. At that moment, and while Honor’s face was still turned towards the window, a few heavy drops were seen to fall against the panes, and the prolonged roll of distant thunder gave tokens of a coming tempest. “O, there’s the rain! How dreadfully provoking! Just when I was going out! What shall I do?” “What will you do? Why, bear it to be sure, and be thankful you’ve nothing worse to bear. I’m going across the meadow to see James Stokes’ whitlow. It will be long enough before such a helpless thing as you has the stomach for such sights;” and so, grumbling as she went, the busy old soul departed--to do her justice, she was always ready to _help_--on her errand of mercy.