"Well, Tom, I will be candid with you, and say, in sailor's phraseology, that if I were about to embark on a voyage of matrimony, as captain of the craft I would like to have Rosabel Wild for my mate. But the widow is very eccentric, and has often declared, in the most emphatic terms, that no man can marry her daughter unless he is worth a hundred thousand dollars. Now, you know that I have not got a hundred thousand dollars."
"But your bachelor uncle, Colonel Abraham Belton, has, and you will be his heir."
"That is by no means so certain as you seem to suppose. Colonel Abraham Belton, although he has lived longer than yourself by some twenty years, is really as young a man as either of us, for nature has given him a constitution of iron. He is so tough that time has never been able to plow a furrow in his face, nor has he a gray hair in his whiskers. He may marry a wife."
"Very true," said the Professor; "and she may raise up children unto Abraham."
"And," said Toney, "the children of Abraham may deprive me of the hundred thousand dollars."
"Toney, you are a man of sense," said the Professor; "and the French maxim-maker says that a wise man may sometimes love like a madman, but never like a fool. But let us hear your story."
"Well, you must know that I am really a very great favorite with the Widow Wild, although I have not the requisite sum for a son-in-law. I believe that Rosabel would be willing to wait until I get the hundred thousand dollars. Indeed, to be candid, I have consulted her, and she has expressed a decided determination to do so. This, however, is a profound secret between the young lady and myself, which we have never confided to the widow. I am often at the house."
"I should suppose so," said Tom.
"On a certain evening I was there, and the clock striking eleven, I rose and was about to take my leave, when the widow urged me to remain, saying that she had received an intimation that Love, Dove, and Bliss, who, you must know, sing as sweetly as nightingales, were coming to entertain Rosabel with a serenade. Now, the widow has a singular antipathy to the Seven Sweethearts, and not one of them can gain admission to her mansion; but Love, Dove, and Bliss had met Rosabel a few nights before at a party, where Dove kept fluttering around her until the widow, who was also present, expressed a desire to take him home and put him in a cage with her canary-bird. It was a fine moonlight night, and we sat conversing in the parlor until about twelve o'clock, when we heard the voice of Dove under Rosabel's window, singing, in mellifluous notes,—
'Wake, fairest, awake! at thy window now be;