Let us pass, Sir. "I've counted ten coffins so far. 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. “Is Miss Stanley coming up with us?” “I go second,” she said, “and change at Wimbledon. Wood strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff. I've been hunting for this particular job for a thousand years!" She smiled a little sadly over this fine enthusiasm; for in her wisdom she had a clear perception where it would eventually end—in the veranda chair.
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