Happily, both for the peace--such peace as they could henceforth hope for--of John Beacham and his wife, the little world of Sandyshire remained in ignorance of the main facts attendant on the death of young Mrs. Vavasour. She had died in childbed it was reported, and unhappily such deaths are of too common occurrence for especial wonder to be created thereby. Any reports of a close connection between John Beacham’s domestic affairs and those of Arthur Vavasour and his dead wife were put a stop to by Honor’s return, and by the restored affection and trust which, after John’s recovery, were seen to exist, not only between the husband and wife, but between Honor and her hitherto implacable mother-in-law. They left the Paddocks for a time, a few not unhappy weeks, change of air and scene having been recommended by the doctors for the perfecting of John’s recovery; and during that absence from their home the bonds of affection, strengthened by the ties of a great sorrow shared between them, were knit very closely together. The dawn of their wedded life had been overcast with clouds; the morning had been dull, and doubts of whether fine weather would even come at noon had strengthened as the day grew older. But the “morning gray,” according to the old shepherd’s adage, will not, let us hope, fail to end in the “fine day” that ofttimes follows. The grieving over love’s decay is of all griefs the gloomiest. To be shedding--I speak of a wife now (men’s eyes are not formed for weeping)--to be shedding secret tears over the memory of an affection passed away is a very hopeless form of sorrow. The “Distilling bitter, bitter drops From sweets of former years” formed, however, no part of the trials to which Honor Beacham was henceforth exposed. _Her_ duty was, by undying efforts to efface the memory of past error, and to strive by every act and word to render herself worthy of a good man’s love. The memory of the bitter past--of the past, unconnected by any lack of love on John’s part--could never, never be washed away; but to “redeem the time,” the present that was left to her, became, because of the evil of the days that were past, a still more sacred duty. Sorrow had done good service in forming while it humbled the character of our poor little impulsive heroine, for “la vertù è simile ai perfumi, che rendono più grato odore quando-riturati.” Heaviness had indeed endured for the morning, but content, if not joy, had come to her and hers with the quiet evening light. CONCLUSION.