"You told me last evening," said I, "that if your son should come to
life again you would give your consent to his marriage. If you really
repent having withheld your consent during his lifetime let me see that
your repentance is true by writing me the following words and affixing
your signature." "What words, sir, must I write?" he asked. "Write," said I, "'If my son is restored to me I will give my consent to
his marriage, with the girl of his choice,' that is what you have to
write." "But--but--" began my father. "Write what I tell you, and affix your signature," said I, gruffly. "As you like, sir," said he, complying with my request. I blotted the
sheet of paper, and placed it in my pocket. "Now, sir," said I to my father, "I have a secret to tell you. Do not
faint, but be prepared for a shock." My father looked at me in astonishment. "Your son lives," said I. "What do I hear?--my son--my son lives?" he exclaimed, staggering
backwards. Then recovering somewhat his composure, he asked, "But how? I
myself saw him laid in the ground; besides, I tell you I saw his ghost
last night." "That was nothing but a distempered dream brought on by our conversation
before you retired to rest," said I. "I tell you your son lives--he is
in my care. Listen; but what I am about to tell you, you must keep to
yourself, otherwise it will damage my reputation. Hearing that your son
had been buried, I, being a doctor and in want of a subject for
dissection, employed resurrectioners or body-snatchers to procure me
your son's body. They stole it from his grave and brought it to my
house. When I began to dissect I found that he was not yet dead. He has
been at my house ever since, still very weak from his recent illness. He
has related to me his love affair, and knows of the deception that you
practised upon him. He begged me to procure for him his father's consent
to his marriage, otherwise, he said he might die in real earnest." "Oh, doctor, doctor!" cried my father, "can it be true? Oh, say that you
are not jesting with me. Do not trifle with the feelings of a poor man!" "I never trifle," I replied, with dignity. "Then it is true, doctor, really true! O God be praised," and he clasped
his hands convulsively, whilst the tears ran down his cheeks. Suddenly his ecstasy abated, and he grew serious. "What is the matter?" I asked. "Oh, but, doctor, if--if after all what I saw last night were not a
dream--if whilst during your absence from home, my son really has died,
and appeared to me last night to let me know. What proof have you that
the vision of my son last night _was_ a dream?" he asked. "What proof?" I exclaimed. "_This_ proof," I cried, throwing off my
disguise and speaking in my own natural voice again. "Behold me, father,
risen from the dead!" My father's surprise, consternation and joy was beyond all description. "What!" he cried, "and are you really Jack risen from the grave? Come,
let me touch you to be sure you are no ghost. "Ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed, hysterically. "What! Jack, my boy, I
see it all. Ha! ha! ha! ha!" and he wept upon my shoulder till I thought
he'd go off in a fit. "Hush! father," I cried, "and calm yourself. My resurrection must be a
secret between us two, for motives of policy. Do you understand?" "Why a secret?" he asked. "Never mind now; that is part of my plan. If you tell a single soul
you'll spoil all, and I am a ruined man," I said. "I understand nothing of all this, Jack," said my father, "but you may
count upon my secrecy; but I say, Jack, how long must I keep the secret,
for I am burning to tell everyone in the village?" "For Heaven's sake, hold your tongue," said I, "until I give you
permission to let it out, or I am ruined for life." "Well, well, Jack, mum's the word," said my father. I then resumed my disguise and prepared to leave the inn. "Why, what the devil are you going to be up to now?" "Mum's the word," said I. "You shall know all when I return. Good-bye,
father," and off I started. I busied myself a good deal about getting everything in order for the
wedding, and returned to H----, where without further bother I was
married at the village church. Fearful that if I threw off my disguise before the wedding that
something or other, I could not tell what or from what quarter, would
mar all and prevent the marriage just at the last moment, after having
been so successful up to this time, this feeling, or presentiment of
harm, vague as it was, induced me to keep on my disguise all through the
ceremony, but when it came to signing my name in the register, I signed
my real name--"John Hearty." This created some sensation. The aunt wanted me to explain myself. However, we hurried back to the
aunt's house, where we at once threw off my disguise, explained all, and
craved pardon for the deception I had practised upon her. At first the aunt seemed a little cold. She was hurt at the deception
being carried on so long. There was no necessity for such tricks, she said, if she had been told
all at the beginning; nothing would have been known to anyone else. "Do you think I would trust a woman's tongue?" I said. "Come, now,
aunt," I said, "though I am not a doctor, I did you quite as much good
as a court physician could have done you. Yes, although the medicine was
only liquorice water mixed up with other harmless filth." "In that, too, I've been imposed upon, then," murmured the aunt. "Nevertheless, I cured you," retorted I; "you yourself admitted it, and
what is more, I took no fee." Soon, however, Molly's aunt recovered her good humour, and all passed
off with a hearty laugh. The only difficulty now was to reconcile ourselves with Molly's father. The comedy was nearly at an end. I donned my disguise once more, and we
started off together after the wedding breakfast to our native village,
and driving up to old Sykes' house, we knocked at the door. We entered, and I introduced myself as his son-in-law. He received us
well, and wished us both health and prosperity. I did not know exactly
how to break the ice, so I reflected a moment. "Mr. Sykes," said I, still in my feigned voice, "I shall expect you this
evening to dine with me at six o'clock at the 'Headless Lady.' Come, I
will take no refusal. If we are to be friends together, I shall expect
you, if not----"

He began to make an excuse about his gouty leg, saying that he never
left the house. "Oh, nonsense," said I, "that is just the reason you never get well. Going out now and then will do you good. I am a doctor, you know, and I
advise you for your good. If you do not like to walk, make use of our
coach." He still hesitated, and at length said, "Well, the fact is, I never go
to that house. The landlord and I are not friends. We have had some
differences together of long standing, and----"

"Nonsense," said I, "that is no excuse at all. All men have differences
now and then, but we must learn to forget and forgive." "No," said Sykes; "he was very much in the wrong."