It was the second of April when we left London. It had been arranged that we should travel by the flying machine [Note. Stage-coaches originally bore this hyperbolical name.] which runs from London to Gloucester, setting forth from the Saracen's Head on Snow Hill. The last evening before we set out, my Aunt Kezia, Hatty, and I, spent at Mr Raymond's with Annas. His mother is a very pleasant old silver-haired gentlewoman, with a soft, low voice and gentle manner that reminded me of Lady Monksburn. I felt it very hard work to say farewell to Annas. What might not have happened before we met again? Ephraim was there for the last hour or so, and was very attentive to her. I do think--And I am rather afraid the Laird, her father, will not like it. But Ephraim is good enough for anybody. And I hope, when he marry Annas, which I think is coming, that he will not quite give over being my friend. He has been more like our brother than anybody else. I should not like to lose him. I have always wished we had a brother. "No, not good-bye just yet, Cary," said Ephraim, in answer to my farewell. "You will see me again in the morning." "Oh, are you coming to see us off?" He nodded; and we only said good-night. Grandmamma was very kind when we took leave of her. She gave each of us a keepsake--a beautiful garnet necklace to Hatty, and a handsome pearl pin to me. "And, my dear," said she to Hatty, "I do hope you will try to keep as genteel as you are now. Don't, for mercy's sake, go and get those blowzed red cheeks again. They are so unbecoming a gentlewoman. And garnets, though they are the finest things in the world for a pale, clear complexion, look horrid worn with great red cheeks. Cary, your manners had rather gone back when you came, from what they used to be; but you have improved again now. Mind you keep it up. Don't get warm and enthusiastic over things,--that is your danger, my dear,--especially things of no consequence, and which don't concern you. A young gentlewoman should not be a politician; and to be warm over anything which has to do with religion, as I have many times told you, is exceeding bad taste. You should leave those matters to public men and the clergy. It is their business--not yours. My dears," and out came Grandmamma's snuff-box, "I wish you to understand, once for all, that if one of you ever joins those insufferable creatures, the Methodists, I will cut her off with a shilling! I shall wash my hands of her completely. I would not even call her my grand-daughter again! But I am sure, my dears, you have too much sense. I shall not insult you by supposing such a thing. Make my compliments to your father, and tell him I think you both much improved by your winter in Town. Good-bye, my dears. Mrs Kezia, I wish you a safe and pleasant journey."