John laughed hilariously. Naturally of a cheerful turn of mind, his spirits, as the hour of his wedded happiness drew near, grew almost boisterous, and although not given to the utterance of melodious sounds, he could have sung aloud for very joy through every hour of that his marriage eve. “Thank you for nothing, mother,” he said good-humouredly; “I’m quite content with my young woman as she is. Youth’s a complaint that’s pretty soon got the better of with all of us, and Honor--Heaven bless her!--has got more sense and judgment, child as she is, than many an older woman. God grant I may make her life a happy one!” he added, raising his hat reverently. “If it depends on me to do it, I’m not afraid but what she’ll find all go smoothly at the Paddocks.” There was a pause after this rather suggestive speech, a pause which Mrs. Beacham filled up by mentally asking herself what John could mean. Were his words intended to convey a hint? or, what was still more hurtful to her maternal feelings, a _warning_? Could it be that John was already preparing to mount guard over his precious Honor? Had he thus betimes his lance in rest to defend her from domestic evils, from imaginary wounds to be inflicted hereafter by her mother-in-law? The thought flashed through her mind, bringing a look that was not altogether pleasant to her still bright, bead-like black eyes: one glance, however, at her son’s honest countenance was sufficient to make her ashamed of having for a moment entertained the suspicion that he had implied more than met the ear. He was in very truth incapable of aught that was not thoroughly open and straightforward, and the mother who bore him should have learned by long experience that the female art of innuendoing was as foreign to his nature and habits as the making a bonnet, or the concocting of a Sunday pie. Mrs. Beacham, at the age of threescore years and ten, had not yet quite passed the age of impulsiveness. She had wronged that kindly-natured son of hers by a suspicion injurious to his habitual frankness, and to the affection towards herself on which she had such good reason to rely, and self-reproach rendered her for the moment both tender and apologetic. “My dear boy,” she said, pressing his strong arm with her thin be-mittened fingers, “it sha’n’t be _my_ fault if this marriage of yours don’t turn out well. But I’m an old woman now, my dear, and you must make allowances. It may go a little hard with me at first, too, to see another cared for afore me, but I shall get used to that; and, John, you may trust your mother, for how could I help loving the woman that was good to my boy?”