“My good gracious me!” she cried; “why you’re never surely going to church in that thing!” and she pointed with a thick finger, clothed in the stoutest of useful bottle-green gloves, at Honor’s airy bonnet; a small senseless thing enough, but very becoming all the same, with its trimming of blue forget-me-nots, showing off to perfection the soft beauty of the brown braided hair, and matching the azure eyes, John thought, so prettily. “To church of all places!” continued the old lady, whose headgear, being of very ancient fashion and materials, had struck Honor as far more remarkable than her own. “Why, you’ll have everyone looking at you!” “And like enough too,” said John with a laugh, and hoping by this _judicious_ manœuvre to divert the rising storm, “let her put on what she may. But I say, mother, what’s wrong with Honor’s bonnet? I don’t pretend to know much about women’s dress, about their crinoline and hairbags, for instance. You don’t wear one of them I’m glad to see, Honey,” he went on, twisting a shining curl that strayed upon her white throat round his big finger as he spoke. “I’m all for nature, I am; but as for the child’s bonnet, mother--” “Now, John,” put in Mrs. Beacham irritably, “don’t you be foolish. I _must_ know better than you can do what’s proper for a young woman to wear; and I say that such a thing as _that_ isn’t fit to be seen within a church door.” Honor could not help smiling--for she did not foresee to what extent her stepmother’s temper would carry her--at the old woman’s abuse of her unoffending costume. She felt certain too of John’s support, and therefore replied cheerfully: “I am very sorry; I thought it such a pretty bonnet. However, I daresay nobody will look at it; and my best hat got so spoilt at Ryde--” “Spoilt indeed! Ryde seems to have played the mischief with all your smart new clothes. And as if you could venture into church in one of those flighty pork-pies, that I hate the very sight of!” “Well then,” interposed John, “as that matter’s settled, suppose we cut along. Got your Prayer-book, eh, Honey? That’s all right;” and he was half out of the door, when, instead of following on his footsteps, Mrs. Beacham plumped her ample figure down on her own especial arm-chair, and planted her two hands defiantly on her knees. “You may go to church, John, if _you_ like; but as for me, if you’ve no objection, I prefer to remain at home.” “Nonsense, mother! Come! The idea of going on so about a bonnet! I’m sure Honor doesn’t care, do you, Pet? She doesn’t mind what she wears, mother, not she! She’s pretty enough not to, any way,” he added in a lower tone; not so low, however, but that his mother heard the words, and grew thereupon more than ever determined to conquer and humble the object of John’s foolish admiration and absurdly weak and blamable indulgence.