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Updated: May 1, 2025
'You remember the beautiful old church at Westcliff, surrounded by its venerable screen of oaks and elms, and the pretty white parsonage on the other side of the road, facing the principal entrance to the church? The house occupies an elevation some feet above the churchyard.
He married, early in life, my father's only sister, and made her an excellent husband; and if a certain degree of fear mingled with her love, it originated in the deep reverence she felt for his character. 'He was forty years of age when the Earl of B , who was a near relation, conferred upon him the living of Westcliff.
'One fine summer evening last July, I was strolling through Westcliff churchyard, and found the dear old man lying on the turf that covered the remains of his wife and son. He called me to him. "This little hillock of green sod," he said, "contains all that was once dearest to me on earth.
'One of the most terrible instances of dishonesty I ever knew, said a lady friend to me, 'happened in my own family, or, I should say, in one of its relative branches. You were staying last summer at Westcliff; did you hear Dr. Leatrim preach? 'Yes; my friends resided about a mile from the parsonage, and were constant in their attendance at his church.
There was always a good sprinkling of silver and gold to set against the weekly donations of coppers and small coin, to make glad the widows and orphans of Westcliff, to comfort the lame, the halt, and the blind. 'The Sunday after Easter was the day Dr. Leatrim had always appointed for the distribution of these alms to the poor.
'It was some years after the occurrence of this domestic tragedy before I visited Westcliff. Time had softened the anguish of the wound, but it was still unclosed, and left the traces of a deep, incurable grief in my uncle's face. He had become a drooping, white-haired man, but was still at his post, a faithful and zealous minister of the gospel.
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