“That’s right, mother,” said John heartily; “you couldn’t, I’m certain sure of that. And Honor will be good; never fear for her. She may be a trifle giddy and thoughtless, perhaps; though even if she’s that, I’ve got to find it out; but her heart--the darling!--is in the right place, and that, to my mind, is what signifies the most. I only wish you could have seen her with those children of Clay’s! It would have done your heart good. I declare, she’s been as patient as an angel with that little pickle Tom, when I should have liked nothing better than to punch his ugly head; and then as to taking care of one in sickness, you should just hear Mrs. Clay talk of her! So quiet and so sensible; always giving the medicines at the right time, and never a thought about herself, even if she was nights upon nights kept out of her bed, poor girl. Why, mother, she must be almost as clever about sick people as you are yourself--and that’s saying a good deal, as I, who have had an illness or two in my life, can witness to.” The aged mother and her stalwart son were on the best possible terms by this time, she leaning with an air of proud maternal content on his arm as they stood together on the broad walk which ran along the far end of the well-stocked garden. The view from that spot was an extended as well as a pleasant one. Away beyond the bright green meadows, where the young stock leaped and gambolled on the springy turf--away beyond the not unpicturesque ranges of buildings suggestive of John Beacham’s lucrative business--lay “hedgerow elms,” and hills gray-blue in the soft spring sunshine, while to the right, beyond Clay’s Farm, where pretty Honor Blake was making ready for her bridal, an extensive pine-forest gave depth and “body” to the picture. “Isn’t it pretty, mother?” John said. “I think the view from this walk prettier every time I see it. She’s sure, Honor is, to like the Paddocks; and only to think that to-morrow is to be our wedding-day; and that in a fortnight--not more; for I don’t intend to be away longer from you and home--only to think that in a fortnight my little Honor may be standing here between us, listening to the nightingales, I hope; for they’ll be singing in the hawthorn hedge, as they do every year, by that time; and, O, mother, it all seems too bright and beautiful to be true!” There was a moisture, strong man though he was and iron-nerved, in John’s clear brown eyes as he spoke of his coming joy, and his voice trembled with emotion. The old lady noticed his agitation; and again her heart was hardened, not against her son, but against the unconscious object of his love.