On the 9th June, 1870, I had been attending the marriage of my little favourite, Florence, Lady Hastings, with Sir George Chetwynd. It was a pretty wedding and gay scene, and the bride, who always “looks lovely” in the newspapers, on this occasion truly merited the epithet. I came home, and on my table lay the fatal letter, announcing that Charles Dickens had had a stroke of paralysis, and little hopes were entertained of his recovery. I lost no time in changing my wedding garment, and dashing off for Charing Cross, took the rail for Gravesend, and drove in a fly to the scene of so many past delights, my heart beating with fear all the way I went. I had for my companion, my trusty and attached maid, Louisa Simons, who loved Gad’s Hill and its owners almost as much as I did, and her society and sympathy upheld me in my suspense. I got down at the door of the stable-yard, and crawling rather than walking across the yard, where the two faithful dogs knew and greeted me, and passing through a little well-known side gate, gained the entrance, and flung myself down, half-fainting, on a seat, in that spot hallowed by the remembrance of so many happy summer evenings. The door was open, but I did not dare enter, or ring, or move, lest I should break the silence which was profound, save, indeed, for the voices of the choirs of birds, who were singing his requiem in the garden he loved. A short time passed, when his eldest son Charles came into the porch to breathe the fresh air for a few moments, and I think he was touched with my deep distress, and my participation in his own grief. He led me into the little study and brought his aunt to speak to me. It was a comfort to be clasped for an instant in her arms, but my place was no longer there, and I left the little house for ever. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXVI PROTECTIONIST PARTY AT BURGHLEY[51]. Footnote 51: