of poor little Honor’s more rational hopes of happiness. But it was not till the memorable day when she made the discovery that in her veins ran purer blood than that which coursed with such a full and healthy flow through the arteries of her yeoman husband, that the mischief that had long been brewing began seriously to develop itself. Then the semi-Celtic girl, retiring into the fastnesses more of a perilous fastidiousness than of a vulgar commonplace pride, threw far away from her with reckless hand the happiness that was within her reach; and dark was the looming of coming events, which, although she saw it not, cast its shadow before her onward path. From the moment when Colonel Norcott, whose misdeeds were not unfortunately (as a warning to others) stamped upon his forehead, addressed and acknowledged her as his child, the bonds that bound this foolish Honor to the farmer of Updown Paddocks hung very heavily on her mind. Yet, reader, I pray you not to blame her too severely for her involuntary fault. There was no ugly root of pride, no taint of what Mrs. Beacham called “fine-ladyism,” at the bottom of poor Honor’s loathing of a lot that on the surface seemed so prosperous and happy. No one--no, not even her severest judges, not even John’s prejudiced parent--could condemn more sternly than did the girl herself her worse than coldness towards her husband--her black ingratitude towards Heaven. But it was in vain she strove against the feelings which her conscience whispered were so base and wicked. In vain she told herself how good her husband was, how honest, how respected, and how generous. Honesty, generosity, and respectablity are excellent things in their way. With them to back him up, a man may defy change, and winter and rough weather. He may go through life with honour, and to his grave lamented; but, alas for him, such gifts may fail to win a woman’s love, or bind her truant fancy. Still, as I said, or rather, perhaps, _implied_ before, if Honor had never chanced to mix with what the world calls gentlemen, poor John’s lack of refinement (vulgar he never could be called), his occasional conversational solecisms, his hands (a trifle red and rough), his boisterous laugh, and his general ignorance of the ways and speech of delicately-reared people, would not, in Honor’s opinion, have told so heavily against him--would not, in short, have so shamed, so repelled, and so--for it came at last to that sad climax--have so entirely disgusted her.