“Go and get ready,” said Aunt Hester, with a nod to her niece, and Rachel flew like the wind. Ten minutes later she was seated in a taxi-cab with Mr. Sheston, who talked about her father, about her country home, her brothers and sisters, and everything in the world except just the things Rachel wanted him to talk about—Egypt and the Pyramids. At last, however, he said quite suddenly, just as they were going up the steps of the Museum, “How long is it since you were here?” “Five or six days, I think, or perhaps—” “_Seven_ days,” corrected the old gentleman, quietly, and all at once Rachel began to get excited. They entered the building, and she noticed that all the officials in uniform touched their hats to the little old man who was evidently very well known there. He turned at once to the Egyptian Gallery, and as they passed the Rosetta Stone, Rachel looked back. “I know all about _that_,” she said, glancing up at Mr. Sheston, who only smiled. “We will go to the Babylonian Room in a minute,” he said. “Do you know where to find Babylonia on the map?” Only that morning, in looking as she always did now, for Egypt, Rachel had seen it marked in her atlas. “It’s up above Arabia, isn’t it?” she began, uncertainly “Up above the Persian Gulf.” “And do you remember any of its cities that were famous once?” “Babylon?” suggested Rachel. Mr. Sheston nodded. “Babylon,” he repeated, and after a moment added, as though to himself, “_How far is it to Babylon?_” “Why, that’s in a book of poetry I’ve got,” exclaimed Rachel. “It’s called ‘A Child’s Garden of Verses.’” “Yes, there are a great many things in Stevenson’s Child’s Garden,” said the old man. “We’ll find out how far it is to Babylon presently. But, before we do that, just come into this room for a moment.” He took her hand and led her into a narrow passage to the right of the big Egyptian hall through which they had come. “Is there anything here that reminds you of—something else?” he asked. Rachel glanced about, and suddenly her eyes rested on a monument against a wall, carved curiously in stone. Beneath it there was an inscription, and she went nearer and began to read the words aloud. “_The tomb of Sheshà, High Priest of Cheops_,” she began, and suddenly stopped short. “Why...!” she exclaimed, turning to Mr. Sheston, and then again stopped short, for in his place stood her friend Sheshà in his beautiful robe, his young face framed by the strange head-dress she so well remembered! And yet—somehow—it was Mr. Sheston too! Sheshà and the old man were in a curious way one and the same person! “Why, you _are_ Sheshà!” cried Rachel, incoherently. “But then—why?”—she glanced at the tomb—“That means you were _dead_—ages and ages ago?” she whispered. “How can you be here—?”