Dolores was never a very talking girl, and the habit of silence had grown upon her. She leant against her aunt and she put her arm round her, and did not attempt to say anything till she asked,
‘Will he be there?’
‘I don’t know, I am afraid he will. It is very sad for you, my poor Dolly; but we must recollect that, after all, it may be much better for him to be stopped now than to go on and get worse and worse in some strange country.’
Dolores did not ask what she was to do, she knew enough already about trials to understand that she was only to answer questions, and she presently said,
‘This can’t be his trial. There are no assizes now.’
‘No, this is only for the committal. It will very soon be over, if you will only answer quietly and steadily. If you do so, I think Uncle Regie will be pleased, and tell your father! I am sure I shall!’
Dolores pressed up closer and laid her cheek against the soft sealskin. In the midst of her trouble there was a strange wonder in her. Could this be really the aunt whom she had thought so cruel, unjust, and tyrannical, and from whom she had so carefully hidden her feelings? Nobody got into the carriage, and just before reaching Darminster, Lady Merrifield made a great effort over her own shyness and said,
‘Now, Dolly, we will pray a little prayer that you may be a faithful witness, and that God may turn it, all to good for your poor uncle.’
Dolores was very much surprised, and did not know whether she liked it or not, but she saw her aunt’s closed eyes and uplifted hands, and she tried to follow the example.
The train stopped, and her uncle came to the door, looking inquiringly at her.