“Well.” said I, “what does all this nonsense come to?”

“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.”

“No, no, doctor; let the poor man rest quietly, and here is a trifle for your trouble.”  So saying, she slipped a weighty purse into my hand.

“This alters the case,” said I, “materially—­your late husband shall never be disturbed by me.”

The widow withdrew with a profusion of acknowledgments; and scarcely had she gone, when a young fellow, who I learned had lately come into possession of a handsome property by the death of an uncle, came to request me not to meddle with the deceased, who he assured me was a shocking old curmudgeon, who never spent his money like a gentleman.  A douceur from the young chap secured the repose of his uncle.

My next visitor was a weazel-faced man, who had been plagued for twenty years by a shrew of a wife, who popped off one day from an overdose of whiskey.  He came to beseech me not to bring back his plague to the world; and, pitying the poor man’s case, I gave him my promise readily, without accepting a fee.

By this time daylight had begun to appear, and creeping quietly out of the churchyard, I returned to my lodgings.  Ned was waiting up for my return.

“What luck?” said he, as I entered the room.

I showed him the fees I had received during the night.

“I told you,” said he, “that we should have plenty of rhino to-day.  Never despair, man, there are more ways out of the wood than one:  and recollect, that ready wit is as good as ready money.”

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