“The structure of majestic frame Which from the neighbouring Hampton takes its name.” Had Honor either been a few years older, less constitutionally light of heart, or more experienced in sorrow, she would never have been able so entirely--as was the case with this giddy young woman--to cast off the sense and memory of her woes. A reprieve after all is _but_ a reprieve; and the consciousness that each moment, however blissful, serves only to bring us nearer to its termination, ought to and does fill the minds of the thoughtful with very sobering reflections. But, as I have just remarked, Honor’s constitutionally happy spirits buoyed her up triumphantly on the waters whose under-swell betokened a coming tempest, and throughout the two swiftly-passing hours which she spent in the beautiful park with Arthur Vavasour by her side, she, recklessly setting memory and conscience at defiance, was far happier than she deserved to be. The “pale and penitential moon” was rising over the Hyde-Park trees as the open carriage drove into Stanwick-street, and Honor, half pale and remorseful too now that the hour was drawing near when she must _think_, promised, in answer to Arthur’s whispered entreaty, that no commands, no fatigue, no dangerous second thoughts, should cause her to absent herself that night from the theatre, where she was to enjoy one of their _last_ pleasures, he reminded her, together. She ran upstairs--a little tired, flushed, eager, beautiful. Would there be--she had thought more than once of _that_ as they drove homewards--would there be any letter for her upon the table in the little sitting-room where what Mrs. Norcott called a “heavy tea” was set out for their delectation? Would there--she had no time to speculate upon chances; for her quick eye soon detected a business-like-looking missive directed to herself, and lying on the table in front of her accustomed seat. With a feeling of desperation--had she delayed to strive for courage the letter would probably, for that night at least, have remained unread--she tore it open and perused the following lines, written in her husband’s bold, hard, rather trade-like writing, and signed by the name of John Beacham: “DEAR HONOR,--I suppose you have some excuse to make for yourself, though _I_ can see none any more than my mother does. You seem to be going on at a fine rate, and a rate, I can tell you, that won’t suit me. I have been at the house you lodge at to tell you that I shall take you home with me to-morrow; so you had better be ready early in the day. My mother thinks you must have been very badly brought up to deceive us as you have done, and it will be the last time that I shall allow you to spend a day under your father’s roof.”