The ceremony was no sooner over than Lady Millicent, who was known to take a great lady’s gracious interest in the domestic affairs of her tenantry, came forward with extended hand and wished the young people joy. The little speech which she made on the occasion was listened to with the outward appreciation and respectful attention usually accorded to the platitudes of the powerful. Possibly John Beacham, whose young wife’s hand was trembling on his arm, would have preferred silent good wishes to this outward and highly-flattering demonstration of goodwill. Honor, too, blushing as she was beneath the gaze of a church-full of wonder-seekers, would gladly have escaped to the cool vestry, whence, by a quiet path beneath the old yew-trees, she and John would have gained the neat new brougham which he had purchased for his bride, and which was in waiting to receive her. But this was not to be. Not to be, at least, until Lady Millicent had gone through the ceremony of alluding in gratifying terms to her late husband’s interest in, and she might almost say (Lady M. was certainly wonderfully condescending) her friendship for, John; not to be till, holding the bride’s hand within her own (an _honour_ which it is to be hoped that young woman fully appreciated), she had expressed a gracious hope that Mrs. John would prove worthy of her mission upon earth--namely, that of being a true and obedient wife, and a devoted mother to the children with whom Providence might deign to bless her union. “A very neat and appropriate speech,” laughed Horace, as the two young men sauntered out of the churchyard. “I should have liked to put in something poetical and complimentary about the ‘bridal of the earth and sky,’ for, by Jove! she looks a good deal too delicate and ethereal to be John Beacham’s wife.” “She is very beautiful, certainly,” Arthur responded. “I hope it will answer; but somehow those sort of marriages don’t always end as well as they begin;” and having thus lucidly delivered himself, they walked on for a short while in silence. CHAPTER VIII. HONOR’S HONEYMOON. “Nothing the matter, really, John. I am not ill, indeed--only stupid;” and Honor, leaning on her husband’s arm, looked up into his face with one of her sunniest smiles. “Stupid! How’s that?” John said. “You were never stupid at the Clays’. You were gay as a bird there, my darling. What’s come over you, my sweet one? I hope you’ve got everything you want to make you happy?” “Indeed I have, John,” said Honor, speaking with that smallest _soupçon_ of a brogue which made everybody wonder, so young had she been when she left her native soil, how it was that the Celtic accent clung to her at all. “Indeed I have, John. I am _very_ happy;” and she spoke so softly, and pressed the arm to which she clung with such a tender loving force, that John, entirely reassured, went on his way rejoicing.