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“I’d feel at home there,” he said, “and it’s about as central as any place, when you come to look on the map of the world.”

But he was not allowed to remain in his beloved New Jersey, and we took him with us to Europe.

We did not, like the rest of the passengers on the steamer, go directly from Liverpool to London, but stopped for a couple of days in the quaint old town of Chester. “If we don’t see it now,” said Euphemia, “we never shall see it. When we once start back we shall be raving distracted to get home, and I wouldn’t miss Chester for anything.”

“There is an old wall there,” said the enthusiastic Pomona to her husband, “built by Julius Caesar before the Romans became Catholics, that you kin walk on all round the town; an’ a tower on it which the king of England stood on to see his army defeated, though of course it wasn’t put up for that purpose; besides, more old-timenesses which the book tells of than we can see in a week.”

“I hope,” said Jonas, wearily shifting the child from one arm to the other, “that there’ll be some good place there to sit down.”

When we reached Chester, we went directly to the inn called “The Gentle Boar,” which was selected by Euphemia entirely on account of its name, and we found it truly a quaint and cosey little house. Everything was early English and delightful. The coffee-rooms, the bar-maids, the funny little apartments, the old furniture, and “a general air of the Elizabethan era,” as Euphemia remarked.

“I should almost call it Henryan,” said Pomona, gazing about her in rapt wonderment.

We soon set out on our expeditions of sight-seeing, but we did not keep together. Euphemia and I made our way to the old cathedral. The ancient verger who took us about the edifice was obliged to show us everything, Euphemia being especially anxious to see the stall in the choir which had belonged to Charles Kingsley, and was much disturbed to find that under the seat the monks of the fifteenth century had carved the subject of one of Baron Munchausen’s most improbable tales.

“Of course,” said she, “they did not know that Charles Kingsley was to have this stall, or they would have cut something more appropriate.”

“Those old monks ‘ad a good deal of fun in them,” said the verger, “hand they were particular fond of showing up quarrels between men and their wives, which they could do, you see, without ‘urting each other’s feelings. These queer carvings are hunder the seats, which turn hup in this way, and I’ve no doubt they looked at them most of the time they were kneeling on the cold floor saying their long, Latin prayers.”

“Yes, indeed!” said Euphemia. “It must have been a great comfort to the poor fellows.”

“We went all through that cathedral,” exclaimed Pomona, when she came in the next day. “The old virgin took us everywhere.”

“Verger,” exclaimed Euphemia.

“Well, he looked so like a woman in his long gown,” said Pomona, “I don’t wonder I mixed him. We put two shillin’s in his little box, though one was enough, as I told Jonas, and then he took us round and pointed out all the beautiful carvin’s and things on the choir, the transits, and the nave, but when Jonas stopped before the carved figger of the devil chawin’ up a sinner, and asked if that was the transit of a knave, the old feller didn’t know what he meant. An’ then we wandered alone through them ruined cloisters and subterraneal halls, an’ old tombstones of the past, till I felt I don’t know how. There was a girl in New Jersey who used to put on airs because her family had lived in one place for a hundred years. When I git back I’ll laugh that girl to scorn.”

After two days of delight in this quaint old town we took the train Londonward. Without consultation Jonas bought tickets for himself and wife, while I bought Euphemia’s and mine. Consequently our servants travelled first-class, while we went in a second-class carriage. We were all greatly charmed with the beautiful garden country through which we passed. It was harvest time, and Jonas was much impressed by the large crops gathered from the little fields.