With a little sign of resignation Honor took her place on the back-seat, where, for the next three hours, she was doomed to be imprisoned, her limbs cramped by sundry bags and boxes--for they had decided to spend the night at Gawthorpe--and her view circumscribed by John’s broad shoulders, and by the gaudy shawl pinned with old-fashioned tightness round his mother’s ample back. Though wanting yet two hours to noon, the July sun was already darting its broiling rays over the travellers’ heads; and Mrs. Beacham’s solid cotton umbrella, hoisted for that autocratic lady’s comfort, materially interfered with that of the slight figure behind, which was clad in the simplest of airy muslins, while there rested on the thick braids of her fair hair a dainty hat that was, in Mrs. Beacham’s opinion, most reprehensibly juvenile and coquettish. “Better, ain’t it, mother?” John said, as the well-bred brown horse dragged the heavy weight behind him through the sand of a cross-country lane. “The country is beautiful to-day. Hold up, Jolly Boy; and, Honor, sit close, my dear. This road is rather in a go-to-the-bad state; and it wouldn’t do to be pitched out in the dust in that pretty get-up of yours.” Honor laughed. She was a girl--child enough, also, you may say--to be amused by the jolts that half shook her out of her seat, and so greatly disturbed the old lady’s temper. In the excitement of the drive, the changing of the scene, and the anticipation of the coming gaiety, she had forgotten Mr. Vavasour altogether; and that gentleman would have been but ill-pleased could he have guessed how small a share he had in young Mrs. Beacham’s thoughts during the long drive that day. “Well, thank goodness, here we are at last!” exclaimed the discomfited old lady, when at length a sudden turn in the high-road brought them in sight of a pretty ivy-covered lodge, which stood invitingly open, and which John informed Honor was the principal entrance to the Danescourt grounds. “Such a dusting as I’ve had to be sure! I declare to goodness that my best silk won’t be worth five shillings when I get it home. A silk, too, that cost me seven shillings a yard no longer ago than last May twelvemonth, and was as good this morning as it was the day I bought it.” “Well, mother, we must buy you another, that’s all,” said John good-humouredly. “But, I say! if there isn’t jolly Jack Winthrop, with the old chestnut out, I see!--How are you, Jack? and how’s the mare?”--pulling up Jolly Boy to have a few moments horsey talk with his old acquaintance. “Sound again, eh? Steps a little short still, don’t she, with the near foreleg?”