?"

"I be quite ready," she answered, in a tremble of delight. "There ain't
no saddle!" she called out, as the donkey was trotted forward.

"You won't want a saddle; these New Jerusalem animals bain't like the
ord'nary uns. Jump on him, missus."

Mrs. Peckaby was so exceedingly tall, that she had not far to jump. She
took her seat sideways, settled her gown, and laid hold of the bridle,
which one of the men put into her hands. He turned the donkey round, and
set it going with a smack; the other helped by crying "Gee-ho!"

Up Clay Lane she proceeded in triumph. The skies were dark, and the rain
came soaking down; but Mrs. Peckaby's heart was too warm to dwell on any
temporary inconvenience. If a thought crossed her mind that the beauty
of the pink ribbons might be marred by the storm, so as somewhat to dim
the glory of her entrance into the city and introduction to the saints,
she drove it away again. Trouble had no admission in her present frame
of mind. The gentlemen in the hop sacks continued to attend her; the one
leading the donkey, the other walking behind and cheering the animal on
with periodical gee-ho's.

"I suppose as it's a long way, sir?" asked Mrs. Peckaby, breaking the
silence, and addressing the conductor.

"Middlin'," replied he.

"And how do we get over the sea, please, sir?" asked she again.

"The woyage is pervided for, missus," was the short and satisfactory
response. "Brother Jarrum took care of that when he sent us."

Her heart went into a glow at the name. And them envious disbelievers in
Deerham had cast all sorts of disparaging accusations to the brother,
openly expressing their opinion that he had gone off purposely without
her, and that she'd never hear of him again!

Arrived at the top of Clay Lane, the road was crossed, and the donkey
was led down a turning towards the lands of Sir Rufus Hautley. It may
have occurred to Mrs. Peckaby to wonder that the highway was not taken,
instead of an unfrequented bye-path, that only led to fields and a wood;
but, if so, she said nothing. Had the white donkey taken her to a
gravel-pit, and pitched headlong in with her, she would have deemed, in
her blind faith, that it was the right road to New Jerusalem.

A long way it was, over those wet fields. If the brothers and the donkey
partook of the saintly nature of the inhabitants of Salt Lake City,
possibly they did not find it a weary one. Mrs. Peckaby certainly did
not. She was rapt in a glowing