Then Angus came up, and gave us a much warmer (and rougher) good-bye: but I felt there was something behind Mr Keith's, which he had not spoken, and I wondered what it was. We left Abbotscliff ourselves at six o'clock next morning. Flora and I were in the chaise; my Uncle Drummond, Sam, and Wedderburn (the Laird's servant) on horseback. At the gates at Monksburn we took up Annas, and Wedderburn joined us there too. The Laird came to see us off, and nearly wrung my hand off as he said, to Flora and me, "Take care of my bairn. The Lord's taking them both from their auld father. If I be bereaved of my children, I am bereaved." "The Lord will keep them Himself, dear friend," said my Uncle Drummond. "Surely you see the need to part with them?" "Oh ay, I see the need clear enough! And an auld noodle I am, to be lamenting to you, who are suffering the very same loss." Then he turned to Annas. "God be with thee, my bonnie birdie," he said: "the auld Grange will be lone without thy song. But thou wilt let us hear a word of thy welfare as oft as thou canst." "As often as ever I can, dear Father," said Annas: and as he turned back, and we drove away, she broke down as I had never imagined Annas would do. We slept that night at the inn at Hawick. On the Saturday morning, my Uncle Drummond left us, and we went on to Carlisle, which we reached late at night. Here we were to stay with Dr and Mrs Benn, friends of Father's, who made much of us, and seemed to think themselves quite honoured in having us: and Sam went off at once on a fresh horse to Brocklebank, which he hoped to reach by midnight. They would be looking for him. I charged him with all sorts of messages, which he said grimly that he would deliver if he recollected them when he got there: and I gave him a paper for my Aunt Kezia, with a list of things I would have sent. On Sunday we went to the Cathedral with our hosts, and spent the day quietly. But on Monday morning, what was my astonishment, as I was just going into the parlour, to hear a familiar voice say-- "Did you leave your eyes at Abbotscliff, my dear?" "Aunt Kezia!" I cried. Yes, there stood my Aunt Kezia, in her hood and scarf, looking as if only an hour had passed since I saw her before. I was glad to see her, and I ventured to say so. "Why, child, did you think I was going to send my lamb out into the wilderness, with never a farewell?" "But how early you must have had to rise, Aunt Kezia!" "Mrs Kezia, this is an unlooked-for pleasure," said the Doctor, coming forward. "I could never have hoped to see you at this hour." "This hour! Why, 'tis but eight o'clock!" cries my Aunt Kezia. "What sort of a lig-a-bed do you think me, Doctor?" "Madam, I think you the flower of creation!" cries he, bowing over her hand.