Mrs. Beacham both looked and felt uncomfortable. It was now many hours since she had seen the daughter-in-law whose feelings she was well aware she had galled and wounded to the utmost. Where those hours had been spent by Honor--whether in the solitude of her own room, or wandering out into the fields--whether in paying a visit to her friends the Clays (at which news Mrs. Beacham would have secretly greatly rejoiced), the latter knew not. All of which she felt quite certain was, that John would demand a strict account of his wife’s proceedings, whether those proceedings were voluntary or otherwise; and if Honor had in very truth been some seven or eight hours alone and without food, the old lady did not doubt that he would be very seriously displeased. John was not habitually an observant man; but there was that in his mother’s face which made him suspect that something was wrong. That she had been, during his absence, harsh with, if not, indeed, positively unkind to, his young wife, was, however, the worst of John Beacham’s fears; but these were disagreeable and annoying enough; and it was with the evident irritation of a hasty-tempered man that he repeated the words: “Where is Honor? She isn’t ill, mother, is she? Or” (more nervously still) “is anything the matter?” “Nothing, that I know of,” replied Mrs. Beacham ceremoniously. It always provoked her to see John “fussing,” as she called it, over his wife. “Honor is in her own room, I suppose, looking over her finery, as usual. If you want her, you had better call her down.” John waited not to hear this piece of advice. A strange but faint presentiment of evil--not the evil that _had_ overtaken him, that was too terrible to have entered even the outside confines of his imagination, but a sense that some annoyance was preparing--oppressed and worried him. Mounting the stairs with hasty footsteps, and calling his wife’s name the while, he was very speedily at the chamber-door, where he tapped--as was his wont--very softly for admittance,--softly at first; and then, receiving no reply, he repeated the summons more noisily; but still without the desired effect. Then, and not till then, he entered, and was surprised--though not yet roused to a state of alarm--by the condition in which he found the usually neat and well-ordered sleeping-room. On the bed, which, tossed and tumbled, bore marks of having been pressed by the weight of a reclining and very restless figure, lay near the pillow a handkerchief still wet with abundant tears; while open drawers, a small, very small, jewel-casket standing--not its usual place--conspicuously upon the toilet-table, and a certain general disarray suggestive of departure, made, for a single moment, John’s heart to stand still within him for fear.