After his departure Mrs. Beacham picked up the ball of gray worsted that she had in her agitation allowed to roll away upon the carpet, and recommenced the task of turning the heel of John’s lambswool sock. Click, click went the knitting-needles, and steadily jerked the bony wrinkled hands that held the pins; but, contrary to custom, the thoughts of the aged woman were wandering far away from the work in hand--away with the son whose fiery passions she had helped to rouse--away with the thoughtless girl whose “cunning ways” (Mrs. Beacham’s vials of wrath were filled to overflowing in readiness for Honor’s devoted head) and artful, “flirty goings on were hurrying her poor John into his grave.” Suddenly a novel thought occurred to her, and, laying down her knitting-needles, the distracted old lady, who was not “good at” doing two things at a time, set herself to “think it out.” She would write--such was the idea with which the mother of invention had inspired her--to Honor herself! It was true that neither caligraphy nor the art of “composition” were among the gifts which nature and education had bestowed upon the ever-busy mistress of Pear-tree House, but for all that she would--so she then and there decided--give “milady” a piece of her mind that would bring back that “artful faggot”--Mrs. Beacham was angry enough to apply _any_ names, however opprobrious, to her daughter-in-law--in double quick time to her husband and her duty. When a woman--especially one of unrefined mind--sits down under the influence of wrathful passions to write a letter, the chances are greatly in favour of her pen running away with her discretion--that is to say, of her using stronger expressions; and of her doing a good deal more mischief, than she had intended. The not-over-well-concocted missive, which occupied the worthy old lady who penned it during two good hours of the afternoon, and was posted in time for the early morning delivery in Stanwick-street, proved, as the reader will hereafter learn, no poor exemplification of the truth of this not very novel remark. There are moods of mind in which the receipt of even a judiciously-penned letter irritates and offends the weak vessel that requires both tender and tactful handling. The missive of autocratic Mrs. Beacham was neither tender nor tactful, and pretty Honor’s fate and conduct were terribly influenced for evil by what appeared at first sight to be one of the most every-day occurrences of every-day life. CHAPTER V. HONOR TURNS REBELLIOUS.