Not so the young nephews and the gallant cousins. Down they went on their knees before the young widow, swearing she was divine—an angel—a goddess—and right glad were they that the sensible old gentleman had given her his fortune, for she deserved it, in faith she did—and they hoped she would marry immediately; heavens! any body might be proud to receive her hand—what was the paltry gold in comparison.
And each one of the seven secretly resolved to woo and win her, and—the fortune to boot! But Florence only cast down her eyes and wept unfeigned sorrow for the loss of a kind old man—her husband and benefactor.
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CHAPTER II.
Florence May was, indeed, a bewitching little widow—only eighteen, and with nearly half a million of dollars in her rosy little palm. The evening star bursting through a cloud was not more bright than were her eyes twinkling through the veil of sable crape, or if perchance some saucy zephyr brushed aside the envious weed, what charming flowers were thereby disclosed—what tempting roses and lilies, and sweet, blue violets, all bathed in the golden sunshine of her glittering tresses. Ah, yes—and then the golden sunshine of those glittering guineas—truly was she not a most adorable widow!
And never was a poor little widow so tormented with lovers since the world began. Dingle, dingle, dingle, quoth the door-bell incessantly; tap, tap, tap, urged the maid at the entrance of her private sitting-room, until the poor child wearied of shaking her little head, and uttering a “No!” to their various demands for admittance. With cards, and tender billet-doux, her tables were overburthened, while pluming themselves upon their relationship, the seven cousins and nephews intruded without ceremony into her presence, eyeing each other with jealous defiance, and snarling and snapping like a parcel of angry lap-dogs.
“Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?”
“I do bite my thumb, sir.”
“Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?”
“No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir—but I bite my thumb, sir.”