Rejoice in it as we may, in this final passage of Parson Primrose to social regions beyond the ken of Farmer Flamborough, there are some elements of loss as there are in all changes.
Wheels on the road! Mrs.Thornburgh woke up with a start, and stumbling over newspaper and _couvre-pied_, hurried across the lawn as fast as her short, squat figure would allow, gray curls and cap-strings flying behind her.

She heard a colloquy in the distance in broad Westmoreland dialect, and as she turned the corner of the house she nearly ran into her tall cook, Sarah, whose impassive and saturnine countenance bore traces of unusual excitement.
'Missis, there's naw cakes.

They're all left behind on t' counter at Randall's.

Mr.Backhouse says as how he told old Jim to go fur 'em, and he niver went, and Mr.Backbouse he niver found oot till he'd got past t' bridge, and than it wur too late to go back.' Mrs.Thornburgh stood transfixed, something of her fresh pink color slowly deserting her face as she realized the enormity of the catastrophe.

And was it possible that there was the faintest twinkle of grim satisfaction on the face of that elderly minx, Sarah?
Mrs.Thornburgh, however, did, not stay to explore the recesses of Sarah's mind, but ran with little pattering, undignified steps across the front garden and down the steps to where Mr.Backhouse, the carrier, stood, bracing himself for self-defense.
'Ya may weel fret, mum,' said Mr.Backhouse, interrupting the flood of her reproaches, with the comparative _sang-froid_ of one who knew that, after all, he was the only carrier on the road, and that the vicarage was five miles from the necessaries of life; 'it's a bad job, and I's not goin' to say it isn't.