But when morning came it brought with it no comfort for the lonely watcher. The hope which she had nourished that the early post would bring to her some explanation of the absence of her only friend proved a fruitless one; for though the sharp tap-tap of the postman’s summons sounded dear and loud at the door of No. 29, there was no letter, so the little dirty drab of a servant-girl informed Honor, for _her_; and again the unhappy and restless creature, seated before her untempting and scarcely-tasted breakfast, was forced to summon all her fortitude to endure the scarcely endurable torments of uncertainty. CHAPTER XXII. JOHN GIVES WAY. When John Beacham, after his worse than fruitless search after his missing wife, returned, which he at once did, to the Paddocks, Mrs. Beacham, though by no means addicted to sudden alarms, was startled by the change which a few short hours had wrought in his outer man. The soft spring evening was beginning to draw in, and the scent of the honeysuckle was filling the air, when the old lady, catching the sound of horse’s hoofs (Tom Simmons’s thoughtful care for the master whom he loved had prompted him to have Black Jenny in waiting at Switcham for the chance of John’s return), laid down the knitting which was her unfailing occupation after dark, and stood beneath the blossoming woodbine that Honor loved, waiting to greet her son. He rode forward very slowly--so slowly that Mrs. Beacham, who had been accustomed for years to the brisk walk, verging on a trot, at which the best rider in Sandyshire was in the habit of bringing in his horse, imagined for a moment that it could not be really John who came at such a lingering, lagging pace towards his home. But if the mother, who knew his ways so well, thought that the step of her son, or rather that of his good black steed, was strangely altered, how much greater was the shock of surprise when, by the failing light, she looked upon John’s careworn face! Throwing himself in a listless fashion, widely different from his accustomed energetic movements, from the saddle, he stood by the old woman’s side beneath the rustic porch, she looking up with sad inquiry (for the suspense and worry of the last six-and-thirty hours had quelled her spirit) into her son’s dulled and altered eyes. “O, John!” she said pitifully, “dear, dear John!” and then turning her head aside, for the strong-minded old woman scorned her own weakness, she in secret wiped away the tears which the sight of poor John’s misery had wrung from her aged eyes.