“He never shed a tear, that I can remember, ever since he was a man grown, for _me_,” was her silent reflection as they passed together into the old farm-house. Mrs. Beacham was, as I have endeavoured to make appear, very far from being an ill-disposed woman; and yet it was, perhaps, just as well for John’s peace of mind that he knew nothing of the strange complication of feelings which, albeit they owed their origin to devotion towards himself, threatened, nevertheless, to make shipwreck of the comfort and happiness of his idolised Honor. CHAPTER V. THE DAY OF DAYS. “Mayn’t I come in, Honor? O, please let me! Mother said I might come and ask; and I’ve brought you such a many pretty flowers. We’ve been up, Teddy and I have, ever since five o’clock, looking for sweet orchids in the south meadow. Do, O do let me in! I’ll be as good as gold; and I won’t rumple your new frock one bit.” It was early morning yet on the eventful day which had been appointed for Honor Blake’s nuptials. Those early daylight hours had seemed very long to the girl who, for the first time in her life, had slept a troubled sleep; and yet, when little Jenny Clay, a chubby bright-eyed child of seven, tapped at the bride’s door, and vehemently implored to be admitted, the big white-faced kitchen clock had but just struck the hour of six, and it wanted still some four hours of the time when the little girl, already half wild with excitement, would enjoy her long-promised honour--namely, that of being first bridesmaid to the heroine of the day, her dearly-loved Honor Blake. Jenny was in her normal state a quiet rational child enough; but “the wedding” had, for the time being, turned everything (without, unfortunately, excepting the children’s brains) topsy-turvy at Clay’s Farm. A lawless time during the week preceding her wedding-day had Honor’s quondam pupils; and poor Mrs. Clay, what with the last baby, and the expectation, in the course of the summer, of a ninth visit from the widow Tamfrey, had enough to do in keeping, as she often remarked, the house from being turned out of windows. During Jenny’s lengthened entreaty--an entreaty which had been responded to by a voice within the bolted door, begging to be left a little longer in peace--another door, the one opposite to Honor’s sleeping apartment, had been briskly opened, and a female head clothed in a many-frilled nightcap being protruded therefrom, a sharp, high-pitched voice was heard--infinitely to the relief of the bride-elect--calling Miss Jenny to order. “Come away, you naughty girl,” cried Mrs. Clay, administering at the same time a gentle shake to the delinquent. “Didn’t I tell you I wouldn’t have it? Go back to bed directly, or father’ll give you a whipping, so he will.”