“Coming home without the horse? Stuff and nonsense!” exclaimed the old lady, rising from her seat, however, with considerable alacrity, to ascertain the truth or falsehood of Letty’s report. She was not kept long in suspense. Round the thick screen of laurel-bushes there was heard a confused sound of human voices, shouting, laughing, and _hooraying_,--then the carriage, with John and Honor inside, was drawn up with a rush to the door, and “the master,” much moved with happiness and gleeful excitement, sprang out upon the hall steps. “Well, mother,” he said, kissing her cheek with warm affection, while his arm was thrown round the old woman’s waist, “what do you think of this start? Jolly, ain’t it?” And in the exceeding delight of the moment he forgot his precious Honor altogether! She was well content, poor child, to be overlooked. It had required a strong effort on her part not to mar her husband’s enjoyment by any display of foolish womanly weakness. She felt faint and nervous, and the painful shrinking from her first interview with the dreaded autocrat of Pear-tree House had returned with redoubled force as the crisis of arrival drew nearer and more near. She had made no sign, however, of her distress, and had even contrived, in the fear that John might make the uncomfortable discovery that she was less happy than himself, to summon the ghost of a smile to her pale and quivering lip. They were standing together--those three who fully expected that all the years of their future lives would be passed together--on the broad, well-worn stone steps leading to the entrance-door of the house. Mrs. Beacham had returned her son’s embrace with interest. There was for the moment unmixed pleasure in seeing his well-loved face again; but, because of that very pleasure, her welcome to Honor was stiff and ceremonious. A touch of the small cold hand with her unbending fingers, and a kiss on the pale cheek that grew paler still under the infliction, was all the greeting bestowed by John’s mother on the daughter he had brought home to her. “Three cheers for the missus!” shouted John’s volunteer team, whereupon the air rang with the loud hurrah that only British throats can give. Inspired by the near prospect of the strong ale which they foresaw would be forthcoming from the far-famed Pear-tree cellar, not a boy or man amongst them spared his lungs, and twice and again, each time more deafening than the last, burst forth the ringing cheer, till even John was fain to put his fingers to his ears, and to cry, with a laugh, “Hold, my friends; enough!”