The old lady went her ways unwillingly enough, seeing it was only natural that she could crave to hear John’s secret; nevertheless, there was consolation in the thought that she was the bearer of exciting news, and she stepped out briskly towards the point in the distance where the pleasure-seekers, intent on their own amusement, remained in utter ignorance of the deed of blood that had been done, as it were, within a stone’s throw of them. Happily for the worthy woman’s peace of mind, the idea of any blame being attached to her son never occurred to her for a moment. She was too old for the fixed beliefs of years to be rooted out without difficulty and labour from the soil in which they had grown and flourished. Mrs. Beacham had not known her well-beloved boy through so many years of close and uninterrupted intercourse as a just and humane, as well as a God-fearing, man, to have her faith so easily shaken now. John’s self-accusation, therefore, passed away unheeded on the summer air, or was only remembered as an evidence of strong excitement very natural in times of sudden danger and distress, when the nerves are overstrung, and words bereft of sense rise, as it were, spontaneously to the lips. Meanwhile John, after drawing Honor’s arm within his own, hastily retraced his steps, she keeping pace with him with difficulty, to the shady glen among the tall laurel-bushes where Honor’s guilty father lay slowly struggling back to life. “What is it, John? Do speak--I’m so frightened. Why must I go with you to see this poor man? I would rather not. You will think me a great coward; but indeed, indeed, unless I can do him good, I would far rather not go with you.” “But you _may_ do him good, Honor,” said John, stopping for a moment and looking her steadily in the face. “This is not a matter of choice, my dear, but of duty. God knows I would not willingly bring you face to face with this man, but--listen quietly, Honor--this is no time for nerves and foolishness. I have just heard, pet, that he is--your father, Honor, and--” “My father!” she said with a gasp, “and he is dying! And you said it was you that killed him! O, John!” They were the only words she uttered, but the sting of their reproach smote the heart of the unhappy husband, as, with Honor’s arm still linked in his, the two, quite mutely now, hastened their steps over the closely-shaven turf.