But at last the storm burst, and the hour for full confession came. On one blustering March night, when the shutters of the old farm-house were closed against the wild north wind--when the mother and son were sitting at the sturdy well-polished mahogany table, he, with his account-books before him, while Mrs. Beacham, on thrifty thoughts intent, was engaged heart and soul in turning the heel of a gray lambswool stocking--John, after much debating in his own mind as to the manner in which his communication could best be made, stammered forth the few initiatory words that rendered the after disclosure comparatively easy. “Mother, you know Honor Blake?” and having so said, with his big manly heart beating a trifle faster than usual, John Beacham leant back in his chair, and thrust his two hands into his waistcoat-pockets. The old woman dropped her knitting-needles in the extremity of her surprise and consternation. “Know the girl!” she repeated, looking up blankly at John’s troubled face; whereupon he, taking heart of grace, entered upon his confession. “Mother, it’s a long story, and I don’t know exactly where to begin.” “Then you had better commence at the end,” said the old lady crossly. John, however, took her up at once. His hesitation and timidity had been terrible barriers to fluency so long as his mother’s _feelings_ were to be soothed, and her jealousy of his affection laid to rest; but directly it became a question of _temper_--when once the old lady, as was her wont on rare occasions of irritation, began to take her son “up short”--then hesitation vanished as if by magic, and John Beacham found comparatively no difficulty in telling his news. “Come, come, mother,” he said cheerfully, “don’t take what I’m going to say that way. You couldn’t surely have expected--it wasn’t in human nature, you know--that I should go on all my life like this.” “Like this! and what, I should be glad to know, do you mean by ‘this’? _This_, indeed! Why, John, haven’t you been done for, and cared for, and looked to? and haven’t you had a mother that’s kep house for you as careful and as regular, though I say it, as ever a house was? Haven’t I seen to the linen, and made sure you wasn’t cheated, as most lads are, by the woman servants, which they take advantage of their foolishness, and--and,” with a little quiet whimper that went to John’s heart, “what more--I only ask you that, John--can you want of a woman than what your poor old mother has done for you?” This appeal, absurd and utterly unreasonable though it was, touched John; so rising briskly from his chair, he, to the manifest detriment of the crimpest of ruffs, threw his arm round the old woman’s neck, and kissed her withered but still rosy cheek fondly.