Ways and means were discussed that day, but to little practical purpose. Of course Aubrey must be informed of the good fortune which had fallen to him: and after some consideration, it was settled that if Hans could make arrangements with Mr Leigh, he should be the messenger in this direction, setting forth when Sunday was over. People did not rush off by the next train in those days, and scald their tongues with hot coffee in order to be in time. The Saturday evening came, and with it the calm quiet which most Puritan families loved to have on the eve of the Lord's Day. While it was not necessary, it was nevertheless deemed becoming to lay aside secular occupations, and to let worldly cares rest. There was therefore some astonishment in the parlour when a sudden rap came on the door, and Charity's face and cap made their appearance. "If you please, Madam, when'll you be wanting your coach, think you?" "My coach, Charity!" said Lady Louvaine in amazement. Everybody was staring at Charity. "It's ready, Madam," said that damsel with much placidity. "He's only got to put the horses to, hasn't 'Zekiel, and they're at Tomkins' stable yon, by th' Tilt Yard--Spring Gardens, I reckon they call it." "Charity, lass, are you in your right senses, think you?" demanded Temperance. "Well, Mrs Temperance, I reckon you'll be best judge o' that," said Charity coolly. "Seems to me I am: but that scarce makes sure, I count." "But, Charity!--what Ezekiel?" "'Zekiel Cavell, Mrs Edith. He's i' th' kitchen: you can see him if you've a mind." "Ezekiel Cavell! Aunt Joyce's coachman! Where on earth has he come from?" "Well, I rather think it was somewhere on earth," answered the calm Charity, "and I expect it was somewhere i' Oxfordshire. Howbeit, here he is, and so's th' coach, and so's th' horses: and he says to me, `Charity,' says he, `will you ask my Lady when she'll be wanting th' coach?' So I come." Everybody looked at everybody else. "Is it possible?" cried Edith. "Has dear Aunt Joyce sent her coach to carry down Mother home?" "Nay, it's none hers, it's my Lady's," said Charity, "and nobry else's; and if she's a mind to bid me chop it up for firewood, I can, if Mestur 'Ans 'll help me. We can eat th' horses too, if she likes; but they mun be put in salt, for we's ne'er get through 'em else. There's six on 'em. Shall I tell Rachel to get th' brine ready?" "Charity, what have you been doing?" said Hans, laughing. "I've done nought, Mestur 'Ans, nobut carry a letter where it belonged, and serve 'Zekiel his four-hours." They began to see light dawning on the mystery. "A letter to whom, Charity? and who writ it?" "To Mestur Marshall: and Mrs Joyce Morrell writ it--leastwise her man did, at her bidding." "What said it?" "I didn't read it, Sir," responded Charity, demurely. "Come, I reckon you know what was in it," said Mr Lewthwaite. "Out with it, Charity."