It was the rectory of St. Paul's, Covent Garden and at its
portal stood the reverend incumbent, evidently awaiting to receive
his guests.
Thaddeus perceived him, and also the welcome of his position; so did
his gentle wife, who with a blushing smile explained all the
alterations he had observed on the respected grave, avowing that they
had been done at her devoted wish, and were effected by the kind
agency of that venerable man, the rector of the church, the Honorable
Bruce Fitz-James. She then timidly added, (and how beautiful in that
timidity!) she had something more to confess; she had ventured, after
obtaining permission of the rector for the erection of the monument,
to see it once during its progress, and then to promise him that on
its completion her honored husband, the Count Sobieski, whose
parental friend that noble dead had been, would, when she revealed
her secret to him, pay a personal visit along with herself to her
beneficent coadjutor, and duly express their united gratitude. She
had scarcely spoken her rapid information, when its courteous object
descended the portal to approach the carriage. His hat was taken off,
and the snow-white hair, blown suddenly by a gust of wind across his
benign brow, a little obscured his face, while he conducted the lady
from the carriage up the steps of his door. But Sobieski found no
difficulty in recognizing the time-blanched locks, which had been
wetted by the weeping heavens in that hour of his lonely sorrow,
whilst committing to the dust the remains of him whose sacred
memorial he had just contemplated, raised by a wife's clear hand.
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