“That you must play the philosopher in the churchyard.”
“Me!”
“Certainly, you’re the very figure for the part.”
After some persuasion, and some further development of his plan, I consented to wrap myself in an ample stage-cloak, and gliding into the churchyard, I waited in the porch according to the directions I had received from Ned, until near midnight, when I issued forth, and proceeded to examine the different tombs attentively. I was bending over one, which, by the inscription, I perceived had been erected by “an affectionate and disconsolate wife, to the memory of her beloved husband,” when I was startled at hearing a rustling noise, and, on looking round, to see a stout-looking woman standing beside me.
“Doctor,” said she, addressing me, “I know what you’re about here.”
I shook my head solemnly.
“This is my poor late husband’s tomb.”
“I know it,” I answered. “I mean to exercise my art upon him first. He shall be restored to your arms this very night.”
The widow gave a faint scream—“I’m sure, doctor,” said she, “I’m greatly obliged to you. Peter was the best of husbands—but he has now been dead six months—and—I am—married again.”
“Humph!” said I, “the meeting will be rather awkward, but you may induce your second husband to resign.”