Of Mrs. Beacham she had not yet brought herself to think with charity. If the possibility of a return to the Paddocks lingered for a moment in her mind, that possibility was rendered so dark and unattractive by the image of her mother-in-law, that Honor, although beginning to long for reconciliation with John, turned from it with as much detestation as it was in her gentle and affectionate nature to feel. Not yet was she thoroughly and effectually subdued; not yet had the chastening rod of affliction done its perfect work. Honor still found herself, when the _good_ spirit within was drawing her to an _entire_ oblivion of her wrongs--to a perfect pardon of the past, and to a self-effacing sense of her own unworthiness--she still, I say, in spite of her sometimes conviction that she ought, in deep humility, to entreat forgiveness of her aged persecutor, shrunk with very natural repugnance from such an act of self-abasement. The provocations she had received _would_ rise up in her memory, like evil ghosts that refused to be _laid_ to rest; while it was as yet, I fear, only in theory that Honor regarded the endurance of wrong with patience, as one of the first of Christian virtues. The time, however, came when she not only believed, but demonstrated her faith by practice, that the great duty of bearing and forbearing may be so gracefully, as well as rigidly practised, that the fruits of such forbearance can scarcely fail to be those of mutual affection, confidence, and good-will. The obtrusive and constant visits of Mrs. Casey did not tend to render poor Honor better satisfied with her condition. That quick-sighted and not over-charitable personage had drawn her own conclusions from the lengthened stay of a young and handsome gentleman in the “second-floor front,” and those conclusions had not tended to increase her show of respect for the young lady--the “Miss Blake” who was so beautiful and _so befriended_. When the long day was at last over, and all chance of seeing Arthur till the following morning was at an end, Honor prepared herself for bed, with the heaviest heart for company she had ever known. With the impatience of suspense so common at her age, she asked herself how it was possible to wear through the hours till morning--the long and lonely hours in which she had naught to do save to turn and twist, and twist and turn again, the arguments for and against each possible reason for Arthur’s breach of faith--the miserable hours during which she would be for ever saying with the sleepless victim of unrest recorded in Holy Writ: “Would God it were light! Would God it were the morning!”