"Oh! what will I do? what will I do?" repeated the poor father, looking eagerly around for aid: all however was dark, and gloomy and silent as the grave. Suddenly, however, a bright meteor-like substance appeared at the edge of the horizon, and the friar, to his unspeakable transport, discovered it to be a patent night fire-stage balloon. He hailed it, and in a few moments it was hovering over their heads; the accommodation ladder was let down, and Clara and her companion having ascended to the car, the balloon again rapidly sailed along.
"Where are we going?" asked Clara faintly.
"Och!" returned the friar, "and that's what I never thought of asking, darling; but Heaven be praised that ye are so much better as to be able to bother yourself about it."
"We are going to Kensington, miss," said the balloon conductor.
"Kensington!" repeated Clara, clapping her hands together in transport—"thank God!"
"It's a very good thing to be thankful any how," said the father; "but I own I don't see why you should cry out in such rapture, when you find we are going the wrong road."
"Oh! no, no, father," returned Clara, "not the wrong road; for Kensington is the goal of all my wishes."
"Poor thing! she is certainly distracted," thought Father Murphy. "The loss of her cousin has deprived her of her senses; but I will let her take her own way; perhaps she'll be better presently."
"Where will you like to be set down?" asked the man.
"Near the prison," cried Clara eagerly.