In common with all the world, the world at least of her own county, Sophy had heard of the loveliness of the well-to-do farmer’s wife; and in common too with many of her sex she had at one time felt some curiosity to see the “Irish beauty” of whose marvellous attractions so much within her hearing had been said. But the fleeting curiosity had long since passed away, and the idea did not enter her head that the blushing girl before her was identical with John Beacham’s bride. She looked so little like a “common person’s” wife, so little indeed like _any_ wife, as she stood there in her girlish grace, with her pretty hat, her diaphanous dress, and looped-up skirt. Poor Leech might have rejoiced over her as a perfect model of dainty damselhood; but I think that Miss Sophy Duberly stands excused for not, on the spur of the moment, surmising that Honor Beacham could be that commonplace and necessarily unideal creature, a farmer’s wife! The appearance on their playground of the formidable strangers, but more especially the unlooked-for advent of their little ladyships, produced a very serious effect on the spirits of the children. Suddenly, and as though struck by the wand of some mysterious fairy, their laughter was hushed, their little hands hung down, and even their round bright faces seemed lengthened and less rosy. “Go on; pray don’t let us stop you,” Sophy said good-naturedly. But it was of no use, the spell was broken; and in spite of Honor’s smiling attempts to restore tranquillity, and to make them feel at home, the tenants’ ruddy-cheeked children refused to listen to the voice of the charmer, even though that charmer was an affable young lady in one of Mrs. Heath’s prettiest hats, and who was heiress to some eighty thousand (at least, so said the voice of rumour) pounds per annum. Honor was half-amused and half-provoked by the bashfulness which induced this signal failure. “They are such tiresome little things,” she said, with a shy smile, but not in the least awkwardly, and addressing herself more to Miss Duberly than to Horace. Her own natural good taste whispered to her that it was better (since that young lady had taken the initiative) not to stand there like a person either waiting for an introduction, or conscious of being too lowly placed to dare to speak before her superiors. “They are so little used to strangers; they can be merry enough though when they are by themselves.” Horace was rather taken aback by Mrs. John’s proceeding; for he had seen little of the world, and entertained rather old-fashioned ideas on the subject of caste. That pretty girl’s relations too with his brother were, or rather had been, peculiar; and Horace, as the wise head of the family (whose doings and sayings he was, _tant soit peu_, given to criticise and condemn), felt it incumbent on him--a false position entails so many false moves--to be on this momentous occasion dignified and formal.