Ten months a widow—was there ever such folly!

To be sure, much might be done in two more, if one earnestly set about it—for Florence had a pair of eyes, and a tongue might “call an angel down.”

Yet to those about her, she seemed more reckless of her fate than ever—going out but seldom, and scarcely allowing any gentleman to approach her presence.

The old housekeeper, who was strongly attached to her young mistress, had fretted and scolded to herself for weeks and months. The only time when she managed to preserve her equanimity, was when Crayford visited the house, for then she saw plainly an offer of marriage, and a wedding-party in the bottom of her tea-cup, while love-letters and kisses sparkled in the candle! But when, like all others, he was also dismissed, the poor soul could contain herself no longer, but breaking in abruptly upon Florence one morning, she thus began:

“Does thee know what month it is?”

“Yes, dear Mrs. Hicks,” answered Florence, raising her eyes from her painting.

“And does thee know that in two more thee has been a widow one year?”

“Alas, yes! but why—why, Mrs. Hicks, do you remind me of it?”

“Truly, child—has thee forgotten thee must marry!”

“Must marry! O no, my good friend, not unless I please—and it is not my will to marry,” said Florence, smiling.

“Not thy will to marry!” exclaimed Mrs. Hicks, lifting up both hands; “and so thy will is to be poor!”

“Yes,” answered Florence, “if you call it being poor to be possessed of health and strength, added to three hundred dollars a year. Poor! why my dear Mrs. Hicks, I shall be rich—really rich!”

“Rich! Ah, thee talks like a simple child! What will thee do with thy health and strength and three hundred dollars!”

“O, much,” replied Florence. “With two hundred I can hire a neat little house—with the other I can furnish it comfortably, and with my health and strength I can teach music and painting; and, if you please, dear Mrs. Hicks, you shall live with me, and so shall poor Effie Day.”

“Child, thee knows nothing of life,” cried the good woman, wiping her eyes. “Verily, it makes my heart sad to see thee blindly throwing from thee the fortune that good old Abel May did give thee! Child, thee does not act in accordance with the wishes of that good man; for, truly, he did beseech thee to marry, that thee might retain the good gifts of the world!”

Florence threw her arms around the neck of the old lady.

“I thank you, dear Mrs. Hicks, for I know you mean all you have said for my good; but not to possess millions could I be tempted to barter my affections; and even if I loved, I would not marry within the prescribed year, when by remaining a widow, I can give to the relations of that excellent man, the fortune to which I have no claim, save in his kindness for one unfortunate. Could I have done so, I would long since have yielded up my rights.”

“Thee is a noble, good girl; and so long as these hands can work, they shall work for thee; but I am sorry, nevertheless, to see thee giving up to the lovers of Mammon what they have so long coveted. Verily it grieves me, too, that young Abel May does not return! Ah, child, child, I hope thee may never be sorry!” and affectionately kissing her young lady, Mrs. Hicks went back to her work, half pleased, half angry with the determination of Florence.

In the meantime, slowly, slowly, slowly, to the kindred of old Abel May, circled the twelve months, dating from the day of his death; suspiciously, anxiously, uneasily watching every movement of the young widow.

But joy, joy! The long looked-for morning at length dawned. To their eager gaze the sun seemed like a huge golden guinea, as he smiled from the eastern sky upon their hopes, and soft and silky as bank-note paper appeared the thin, vapory clouds floating o’er his path.

Again from marble-columned squares and by-lanes, from suburban cottages and distant villages they came, flocking in like vultures, all ready to pounce down upon the innocent little lamb whom old Abel May had sheltered in his bosom.

Nor were their torments ended here; even then a new fear seized upon them. Who knows what desperation might effect; the widow that very day might take it into her head to marry—they had no doubt she would.

Alas! each hour marking the twelve of that day of doom, was but a type of the preceding twelve month, which had finally brought around the joyful anniversary.

Midnight sounded. Hurra! hurra! The widow unmarried; and bright, sparkling dollars, like shooting stars, falling around them.

At twelve, M. precisely, the lawyers bowed themselves into the spacious parlor of the deceased, for it could no longer be called the widow’s, in order to read again the last will and testament.

Triumph sat again upon the countenances of those whom the occasion had called together, although some made most woful faces in trying to squeeze out a few tears, thinking it would be judicious to consider the old man as just dead. But Florence was as provokingly cheerful and handsome as ever—why one would have thought she was about to receive a fortune instead of losing one; and it even seemed as if she could hardly suppress her laughter as she glanced around at the expectant heirs.

The man of law at length drew forth the will with an emphatic “Hem,” premonitory.

Then on all sides there was a general stir; the gentlemen pulled up their shirt-collars and elongated their faces; the ladies smoothed down their mourning robes and held their handkerchiefs ready to receive a tear when occasion should call it forth.

The reading commenced, and all eyes turned exultingly upon Florence as these words sounded audibly:

“To my beloved wife, Florence, I do bequeath all my property, both personal and real, consisting of,” etc., etc., “provided that within one year from the day of my death she marries. But if, at the expiration of that time she still remain a widow, then I do annul my will in her favor, and do bequeath the same to my nephew, Abel May, provided he returns within the said year. If not, then unto those who can bring good proofs of their consanguinity to me, do I direct my property to be equally distributed. Always excepting an annuity of three hundred dollars, to be paid to my beloved wife, so long as she lives, etc.”

“Nonsense!”

“Three hundred dollars!”

“An old fool!” echoed softly from lip to lip—the paltry sum already dashing their cup of joy.

“You have heard the will, ladies and gentlemen,” said the lawyer, addressing the company, “I believe Mrs. May acknowledges herself still a widow—will you signify the same, madam?”

Florence bowed.

“You observe, ladies and gentlemen, the lady admits herself a widow; then, of course, it only remains for me to announce young Abel May as sole heir to all the property, both personal and real, of which the testator died possessed.”

“But Abel May has not returned!” was the general exclamation.

“Abel May has returned—Abel May is here to claim his rights!” said the lawyer, screech owl that he was to their ears.

The folding doors were thrown open, and a gentleman slowly advanced within the circle.

Did Florence dream—was it no vision of her imagination! for as she looked upon the stranger, the same eyes she had seen so mournfully gazing upon her in the picture gallery, but which now, beaming with happiness, met hers, while upon his finger—a star of hope—glittered the emerald ring she had sent the unknown.

Slightly bowing to the astonished assembly, Abel May eagerly approached her. The happy girl looked up with a sweet smile as he drew near; what need of words, her beautiful eyes were far more eloquent, and with thrilling joy the young heir caught her to his bosom.

At first the discomfited relatives disputed the identity of the tall, elegant stranger, with the lad who so many years before went roving; but his proofs were indisputable. So out of the room, and out of the house, and back again to their homes, with unreplenished purses, they quickly dispersed.

It appears that young May returned only a few weeks subsequent to the death of his uncle from the East Indies, where he had accumulated a handsome fortune. By accident he saw Florence, and was deeply interested by her appearance. Aware that a lapse of so many years must have materially altered his person, he resolved to remain incognito. Frequent opportunities of seeing the young widow ripened the interest she had first inspired into affection. Yet he would not present himself to her notice amid the throng of fortune-hunters and idle flatterers who surrounded her. Rumor had made known to him the nature of the will, and he resolved to abide the year, taking upon himself, meanwhile, the pleasing office of acting as the protector and guide of the young, inexperienced widow. If, at the end of the year, she had so far evinced a soul above all sordid views as to remain unmarried, then, and not till then, would he seek to gain her love. With the fortune, however, which, in the event of her remaining single, would fall to him, he nobly resolved to have no share, and had therefore drawn up an instrument by which he relinquished all claim in favor of Florence, whether successful in obtaining her affection or not. This only awaited its proper time to be duly attested.

A year and a day brought results with which the reader is already acquainted, and a few weeks witnessed the happy union of Florence and young Abel May.

Under the roof of her benefactor and his lovely wife, the unfortunate Effie Day found a home and kind friends. Of Crayford nothing more was ever heard. It was supposed he had left the country for a field less obnoxious to the display of his peculiar attributes.

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BY FORLORN HOPE.

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FROM THE FRENCH OF MARC FOURNIER.

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