"Dear Bob:—I heard the other day that you had returned home, and I have been eager to see you. They tell me that you have fallen desperately in love with a certain widow, and that you have been up the country, under pretence of partridge shooting, in order that you might inquire about her property. Are the inquiries satisfactory? Are the acres and dwellings such, that on your return, she appears to be angelic? Or, being disappointed as to the properties left her by her father, and the old doctor, is she but a woman of ordinary charms? Oh Bob! I never thought you so mercenary. I thought that you would follow my example, and despise all but the real excellencies which can adorn a wife.
"Had it not been that I am lame, I should have been to see you,—as it is desirable that we should meet soon.
"Now I think of it, there is another foolish report about you,—that you go to the court-house by the back street, in consequence of your having heard that that scape-grace, Bill Turney, whom you lashed so terribly in your address before the squire, when Obadiah Potter was arrested for beating his wife, intended to pummel you as soon as he caught you. They say also that he describes his belligerent intentions in very graphic language, to wit, that he will, 'shoot through you, like lightning through a gooseberry bush.' These stories will amuse you.
"Stop and see me the first time you come along the main street in a bold manner.
"Your friend,
"J. Walters."
These annoyances had at least a good effect. I resolved that I would see the widow, and throwing off my nervous anxiety, explain to her that I could not possibly find materials sufficient for a biography. I intended also to suggest, that a physician might be better qualified for the undertaking.
Hence I gladly accepted the invitation of a fair cousin of mine, to be one of her guests for an evening party; where I felt confident that I should meet the widow.
It had now been several weeks since I had been thrown into the society of ladies. My health was improved. The nervous fever that had agitated me, had passed away. The fascination of one whom I had sometimes met in our village gatherings, seemed to be restoring me to myself.
After a while, my companion looking across the room, said to me, "How well our widow looks this evening."
I thought that there was a mischievous look in her laughing eye. But sure enough—there stood the Empress, who had commanded the biography. She was resting her hand upon a piano, and in deep conversation with Judge Plian.
I crossed the room and spoke to her. She received me politely—but not as one who had the slightest recollection, that there was any tie of the most profound interest between us. Surely a man writing her deceased husband's biography, should have immediately become her chief object of attention. On the contrary, after a few common-place words, she turned to the Judge, and became absorbed in his conversation.
And this was the more remarkable, because the man was by no means good-looking. Nay, I think him rather insignificant. I had a few words with him on the occasion of the trial of that miserable creature, who would get himself hung, and I concluded, not only that he was not well versed in legal learning, but that he was a remarkably stubborn man, riveted to his opinions, even when, by means of lucid argument, you proved him to be in error.
A short time afterwards I entered into conversation with my fair cousin. She directed me to look at the two, near the piano.
"They will make a good-looking couple, will they not?"