But the juggler's wife is less alert than usual with the money-box, for a child's burial has set her thinking that perhaps the baby underneath her shabby shawl may not grow up to be a man, and wear a sky-blue fillet round his head, and salmon-coloured worsted drawers, and tumble in the mud.
The feathers wind their gloomy way along the streets, and come within the sound of a church bell.

In this same church, the pretty boy received all that will soon be left of him on earth--a name.

All of him that is dead, they lay there, near the perishable substance of his mother.

It is well.

Their ashes lie where Florence in her walks--oh lonely, lonely walks!--may pass them any day.
The service over, and the clergyman withdrawn, Mr Dombey looks round, demanding in a low voice, whether the person who has been requested to attend to receive instructions for the tablet, is there?
Someone comes forward, and says 'Yes.' Mr Dombey intimates where he would have it placed; and shows him, with his hand upon the wall, the shape and size; and how it is to follow the memorial to the mother.