“And I am Irish too,” Honor said eagerly, “and my name is Blake. I am just come from the country” (there was little necessity for telling Mrs. Casey _that_), “and I know nobody--except one person,” she added with a pretty blush, the suddenness of which was not lost upon her quick-sighted interlocutor--“one person who will get me a situation,” she went on hurriedly--“a situation as nursery governess. I was that before; and till I get a place, I should like very much” (Honor already began to dislike the idea of wandering far afield in search of a domicile) “to stay with you.” To this request, after a slight demur on the part of the owner, or rather lessee of No. 29 Sussex-street--a demur occasioned by her unwillingness to appear over-anxious to possess her new acquaintance as a tenant--Mrs. Casey graciously acceded. The terms were not moderate--a pound per week for two very small rooms on the second story; but Honor made no objection. She was too glad to get over as well as she had done the awkward question of a reference, for any idea of bargaining to obtrude itself on her mind; and thus, in the space of little more time than it has required to scribble down this page, the bargain was concluded, and Honor Beacham, feeling very strange, and not a little lonesome, took quiet possession of her apartments. By this time it was nearly two o’clock, and Honor, in a solitude only broken by the ceaseless roll of wheels, and by all the multifarious uproar of a crowded London thoroughfare, began, against her will, to think over what was going on at Peartree House. It was just possible, seeing that she and the old lady had parted on such extremely bad terms, that the latter, deeming it more dignified to leave her adversary to herself, had never even made any inquiries concerning her; and even had she done so, Honor felt no fear that any inquiries of the enemy would lead either to curiosity or discovery. There was nothing contrary to her habits in taking an ante-meridian walk, whether to the village for a skein of wool or other such trifling errand, or simply for the sake of a stroll to the garden or in the meadows, where the foals were playing by their mothers’ feet. Honor felt persuaded, therefore, that unless any chance observer, any officious gossip, after tracing her to the station, returned to spread through the village the intelligence of her flight, that all-important event would not, in all probability for several hours after, be discovered. The return of John Beacham to his dinner, which he was in the habit of doing, unless detained on business, punctually at four, would of course be the signal for a search after the missing woman; and Honor, as the hours wore on (and they passed very slowly after the inditing and taking to the nearest post of her second note to Arthur Vavasour), could scarcely keep her mind for many minutes together from wandering back again to home, and to the imagined scene of grief