Sometimes my dear friend Mr. Cyril has
accompanied me on these occasions, and he has seen how I have been
humiliated.'
An involuntary 'haw, haw!' came from Sleaford, but looking towards my
mother and perceiving that she was listening with intense eagerness,
he said: 'Ten thousand pardons, but Cyril Aylwin's droll
stories,--don't you know? they will--hang it all--keep comin' up and
makin' a fellow laugh.'
'Well,' continued Wilderspin, 'on that memorable morning I was
impressed to walk down the street towards Temple Bar. I was passing
close to the wall to escape the glare of the sun, when I was stopped
suddenly by a sight which I knew could only have been sent to me in
that hour of perplexity by her who had said that Jesus would let her
look down and watch her boy. Moreover, at that moment the noise of
the Strand seemed to cease in my ears, which were rilled with the
music I love best--the only music that I have patience to listen
to--the tinkle of a black-smith's anvil.'
'Blacksmith's anvil in the Strand?' said Sleaford.
'It was from heaven, my lord, that the music fell like rain; it was
a sign from Mary Wilderspin who lives there.
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