“Your mother is very fortunate in having known so few troubles; I think, though, that crying or not crying has a great deal to do with people’s constitutions. I cry dreadfully easily: I shall try not, when Mrs. Beacham--I beg your pardon, John--when _mother_ sees me. She would think me such an awful little goose. But about going home, John,” she went on after a pause, during which her husband still continued looking silently at the empty grate; you see, he was so very anxious that Honor should not be led by him to return a day sooner than she felt inclined. “About going home; suppose we write and say we’re coming--_you_ would like it, I know quite well, and I shall be so glad to see the roses in the dear old garden that you are so fond of. They will all be in blossom soon, and then the new greenhouse, and all the pretty new flowers--” “And the new _pianner_, and _chaiselong_, and sofa table,” John said slily--“you’ve got it all to see, Honey. I’ve had such a pretty sunny room new furnished for you--a room that my mother never used nor cared for. I don’t know how it was,” he continued musingly, “but she certainly never _did_ care for that room. And yet it looks to the south, and opens out upon the garden. Windows down to the ground, you know, and yet not exactly to the ground; for there is a flight, or rather two flights, of old stone steps, that meet together in a sort of little balcony at the top; and the balustrades are iron, all as old as old can be, and covered thick with honeysuckles and roses. Yes, I feel sure that you will like your room, Honey, and be as happy in it, I hope, as a little bird.” Honor felt sure of it too; it would be so delightful to step out among the pinks and roses in that dear old-fashioned garden at the Paddocks. She had only been there once--once on an occasion that it was not easy to forget, namely, when she had been driven over from Clay’s Farm by John to be inspected and pronounced judgment on by the formidable old lady in the black-silk dress, who watched her with such a keen-eyed scrutiny, calling thereby so many painful blushes to her burning cheeks. Those days of trial were happily over now. According to John--and Honor placed unbounded confidence in her husband’s judgment--there was no reason for the nameless alarm which had often filled her mind at the idea of sharing the home of John Beacham’s mother. By degrees, and partly moved thereto by the springing trustfulness of youth, the young wife had learned even to think with pleasure of that other inmate of her new home, whose affection she hoped to win, and to whose comfort it was her firm intention to devote herself. * * * * *