"'Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Sheppard. So she brought upon the stage the Reverend Henry Dolby, a preacher of means, worldly-wise and kindly, cheery and rotund, who, with his wife and daughter, had arrived at the Victoria that morning. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. Young and old were dressed in their gayest apparel; and it was evident from the smiles that lighted up every countenance, from the roguish looks of the younger swains, and the demure expression of several pretty rustic maidens, that a ceremony, which never fails to interest all classes,—a wedding,—was about to take place. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest. That would be myself, or if she lived, Mary’s daughter. And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet.
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