“Indeed,” said I, “if we ever happen to be inveigled into a confab with those dignitaries, I hope Pomona will come to the front and take my place.”

The only person not entirely satisfied with the proposed journey was Jonas.

“I don’t like trapsin’ round,” said he, “from place to place, and never did.  If I could go to some one spot and stay there with the child, while the rest of you made trips, I’d be satisfied, but I don’t like keepin’ on the steady go.”

This plan was duly considered, and the suitability of certain points was discussed.  London was not believed sufficiently accessible for frequent return trips; Paris could scarcely be called very central; Naples would not be suitable at all times of the year, and Cairo was a little too far eastward.  A number of minor places were suggested, but Jonas announced that he had thought of a capital location, and being eagerly asked to name it, he mentioned Newark, New Jersey.

“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.