"Eh, no, poor soul!" was my Aunt Kezia's sorrowful reply. "My soul's beyond my saving, but Christ has it safe. And knowing that, Madam, makes one very pitiful to unsaved souls." "Upon my word, Madam!" cried my Aunt Dorothea. "You take enough upon you! `Unsaved souls,' indeed! Well, I am thankful I never had the presumption to say that my soul was safe. I have a little more humility than that." "It would indeed be presumption in some cases," said my Aunt Kezia, solemnly. "But, Madam, if you ask a princess whose daughter she is, it is scarce presuming that she should answer you, `The King's.' What else can she answer? `We know that we have eternal life.'" "An apostle writ that, I suppose," said my Aunt Dorothea, in a hard tone. "They were not apostles he writ to," said my Aunt Kezia. "And he says he writ on purpose that they might know it." "Now, ladies, 'tis high time to set forth," called my Uncle Charles's voice from the hall; and I was glad to hear it. I and Hatty ran off at once, but I could not but catch my Aunt Kezia's parting words,-- "God bless you, Madam, and I thank you for all your kindness. And when I next see you, I hope you will know it." We drove to Snow Hill in Grandmamma's coach, and took our seats (bespoken some days back) in the flying machine, where our company was two countrywomen with baskets, a youth that looked very pale and cadaverous, and wore his hair uncommon long, a lady in very smart clothes, and a clergyman in his cassock. My Uncle Charles bade us farewell very kindly, and wished us a safe journey. Mr Raymond was there also, and he bade God bless us. Somehow, in all the bustle, I had not a right chance to take leave of Ephraim. The coach set forth rather sooner than I expected, while Flora and I were charging Mr Raymond with messages to Annas; and he had only time to step back with a bow and a smile. I looked for Ephraim, but could not even see him. I was so sorry, and I thought of little else until we got to Uxbridge. At Uxbridge we got out, and went into the inn to dine at the ordinary, which is always spread ready for the coming of the flying machine on a Wednesday. As I sat down beside my Aunt Kezia, a man came and took the chair on the other side of me. "Tired, Cary?" he said, to my amazement. "Ephraim!" I cried. "Wherever have you come from?" "Did you think I had taken up my abode in London?" said he, looking diverted. "But I thought you went after some business," I said, feeling very much puzzled that he should be going home just now, and leaving poor Annas in all her trouble. "I did," he answered. "Business gets done some time. It would be a sad thing if it did not. Will you have some of this rabbit pie?" I accepted the pie, for I did not care what I had. "Then your business is done?" I said, in some surprise. His business could hardly have any connection with Annas, in that case. It must be real business--something that concerned his father.