For three days--three miserable days--during which John, engrossed by business cares, and hoping, as sanguine men in spite of appearances will, that all would come right at last, appeared to take no notice of the silence only broken by sarcastic speeches, and by the “talking at” (which to some women is a positive accomplishment) on his mother’s part, which reigned between her and Honor--during those three miserable days, the seeds destined to produce very bitter fruit were being sown with terrible certainty in Honor Beacham’s breast. She was the last woman in the world to endure without evil consequences the description of torture to which she was being subjected. Fond of popularity--eager to be loved--impulsive--passionate if you will, this girl, who could only be what she called angry for a passing moment, would, for anyone who, to use her own expression, have been “kind to her,” have been the most docile and tenderest of friends and dependents. But unfortunately--_most_ unfortunately, as the sequel will prove--it was not in Mrs. Beacham’s nature to forgive. She believed herself to be a Christian; she thought, so little did she know her own feelings, that she harboured neither malice nor hatred in her heart, but all the while there was scarcely a harder (and certainly there could scarcely be a harder _seeming_) idiosyncrasy than that which was owned by this _soi-disant_ believer in the Christian faith. Mercy for Honor--pity for the wicked wife who had shown herself so false and flighty--she had none. The pale delicate face, bending over her woman’s-work, appealed to this unrelenting woman’s heart in vain. The days--even supposing them ever to have existed--when Mrs. Beacham knew what temptation was, had long since passed away, and were forgotten; all she remembered was that _she_ had through all her married life been blameless, industrious, and submissive, and that these virtues endowed her with the right to be the judge and condemner of others was neither to be removed nor shaken. Poor Honor, poor little impressionable, impulsive girl! Her spirits felt very heavy, and her heart beat with almost painful quickness when, on the fourth morning after her compulsory return, Mrs. Beacham brought her work (it was her first time of doing so) and established herself alarmingly near to the broad old-fashioned window-seat, Honor’s favorite and accustomed working-place. Dragging after her the big sheet on which she was about to perform the housewifely operation of “turning,” her tortoiseshell spectacles fixed on her keen hawklike nose, John’s mother did indeed appear in the light of a terrible object to her timid and easily-subdued daughter-in-law. Honor did not possess (and well she knew her weakness) the courage requisite for self-defence; and during the short period of silence which followed on Mrs. Beacham’s establishment of herself in front of her own special little work-table, Honor, had she