“So that’s all settled,” said John, drawing a long breath, as he thrust his writing-desk from him, and threw up his big muscular arms for what he called a “stretch.” “Leave this at ten; strike across country; after the voyage to Reading, and--yes, that’s exactly it--be home for my mother’s tea at seven. Won’t she be glad to get the letter, that’s all! And sha’n’t I be glad to tell her that I’ve got the sweetest, to say nothing of the prettiest, wife that ever a fellow was blest with?” “And your mother’ll say you spoil me,” Honor said, while a sigh struggled with a smile for mastery. “You mustn’t be making too much of me, John. You’ll be having me, like little Tommy Clay, crying for I don’t know what, one of these days, if you don’t take care.” “God bless you, my Irish darling!” exclaimed John enthusiastically, for the slight Celtic accent in which his young wife spoke made her words sound very sweet and winning to his ears. “God bless you! and while I live, and after it pleases Him to take me, may you be as happy, dearest, as you deserve to be!” CHAPTER IX. THE WELCOME HOME. A fortnight, minus two days, had passed since John Beacham was married, and once more, on the occasion of the return of the bride and bridegroom to their home, all Switcham was on the tiptoe of expectation. At the little wayside station, almost a private one for the accommodation of “the Castle,” few trains throughout the day were in the habit of stopping. There was one at 7.10 P.M., a fact to which the time-table and _Bradshaw_, those sworn enemies to indiscreet surprises, bore useful witness; and as by that train the bridal party was by the Switchamites fully expected to arrive, a considerable crowd had (when the down passengers were due) assembled round and about the station, ready, with more heartiness than good taste, to bestow on the returned travellers a noisy and a cordial welcome home. Meanwhile John and his pretty wife had spent the greater part of the day in London, enjoying, amongst other inexpensive pleasures, the apparently inexhaustible one of looking in at the tempting windows of the West-end shops. It was Saturday afternoon, and the carriages, as was usual on that day, were pretty well filled with passengers. Honor and her husband had already taken their places, the first bell had been rung, and only one seat remained unappropriated in the compartment which they occupied, when a handsome, distinguished-looking young man, whose face Honor thought she had seen before, came slowly sauntering along the platform. He glanced in a careless manner towards the carriages as he passed, but his eye chancing to catch sight of John’s honest sun-burnt face, he stopped, and nodding familiarly, asked the latter if there was a vacant place. “Plenty,” John said cordially.--“Make a little room, Honey. That’s it.--Quite well, sir?”--shaking hands cordially with the new-comer, whom he introduced to his wife as “the young Squire.”