John Beacham tried very hard to believe that he rejoiced in his wife’s pleasure in the society of her new connections. Again and again he told himself how well and delightful it was that not only the Bakers, above him in position as they were, but Mrs. Colonel Norcott herself, a personage and an heiress--one, too, who _might_ very naturally have looked coldly upon poor Honor--had treated her from the first with a consideration and regard as sincere as they were flattering. John was well aware that the converse of this state of things would have surprised no one; and often, reflecting on the mortification that _might_ have been his wife’s portion, he endeavoured to reconcile himself to the deplorable fact that she had been removed, fatally, as he felt, removed, from his sphere into another, and that from being the light and joy of his fireside, Honor had been virtually translated to a world in which _he_ had neither part nor interest. That the anxious man was to a certain degree justified in this suspicion, no judge of character who carefully watched that pretty Honor on her return to what John had, alas! begun to call her duties, could have doubted; for, when she did return, it was not very difficult to perceive that she was not the same Honor who had left the Paddocks only eight short days before. In what the change consisted, however, it would have been difficult to say. She was as willing to oblige, as anxious to please, and as sweet-tempered as before; but there could be traced a languor in her movements, an occasional absence of mind from things present, and a decided want of the _zest_--the spring of life and energy--which, previous to the fatal gala-day, had been conspicuous in the girl’s half Celtic character. All this John, to whom she was far dearer than his own life, noticed with a jealous and ever-growing irritation. With the dangerous faith possessed by many of his sex in their own perceptive powers, this man, so utterly in the dark regarding the complex machinery of a woman’s nature, decided at once that he knew what was the matter with Honor. During that week--that long miserable week--that she had been away from him, her father (how hard it was for John even in thought to call the Colonel by that tender name!) had amused himself, the farmer feared, by initiating Honor into some of the wicked doings of the bad world in which he lived. Of what should, or indeed _could_, such a man talk, John Beacham said to himself, but of things of which a pure-minded young woman had best know nothing about? What are people the better, he went on to ask himself, for hearing what fashionable people are about in London or in foreign parts? He was no Methodist, not he, and was all for a little pleasure at odd times for everybody; but if Honor were to grow discontented because she couldn’t go about like a lady, and have a lodging up in town sometimes, like Mrs. Kempshall, and go to the