Mrs. Baker both looked and felt distressed. John Beacham, whom she knew well by repute, and partly, indeed, personally, was the one stumbling-block, the single, but very discouraging hitch, in the new view of things which had been opened out to her sight. Not--let me be thoroughly understood--that this excellent matron looked with indulgent eyes upon her prodigal’s offence; but the deed being done and ineffaceable, she trusted, seeing that a tardy repentance had followed on the crime, that a merciful forgiveness might be awarded to the penitent, and that Honor would perhaps--But here the thought of John Beacham, his rights, and prejudices, and claims, obtruded themselves, and checked the hopeful projects that were rising up in her mind concerning her so-lately-discovered relative. “Did he--_did_ my father say anything about John?” Honor asked again imploringly. She had more than reciprocated Mrs. Baker’s sudden predilection, and the idea that more than probably, supposing that lady to be ignorant of Mr. Beacham’s intemperance, she would withdraw her countenance from herself, was terribly alarming. The pleasantest peculiarities which Honor had as yet discovered in her father’s mother lay in her extreme gentleness of manner, and the exceeding softness of her voice. There was a refinement, too, in her manner and actions, which was delightful to the foolish creature whose ambition not only to be that mystical thing we call a lady, but to be able to choose her associates from amongst the high-placed of the earth, had become, since her acquaintance with Arthur Vavasour, almost a mania. Noticing her anxiety, Mrs. Baker hastened, in the kindest imaginable fashion, to relieve it. “My son,” she said with touching naïveté and simplicity, “has no secrets from his mother now. His confession, poor fellow, has been a painful one; but he has not now to learn that I--knowing myself to be a sinner, and being humbly conscious of having fallen far short of the mercy of God--do not dare to be severe and cruel upon those who have also need of pardon from on high. It is wrong, dear child, we must acknowledge that, to lift the hand in anger against our fellow-creatures; but”--smoothing Honor’s golden hair tenderly--“Frederick does not deny that he gave your husband provocation. It was a blow, too, of course--a heavy shock--to learn that his young wife, his--but we will not revert to the painful past, my love. If--if my poor son’s life is mercifully spared to us, we must try and make your excellent husband think better of us all; while as for you, my dear, it will not be hard, I hope, for you to give us a _little_ of your love. You will be very dear to me, Honor--” She was interrupted by the sweetest and most welcome answer that the girl for whose affection she was yearning could have made to her; for a pair of loving arms were suddenly thrown around her aged neck, and Honor, in a passion of grateful tears, exclaimed: