The Widow Rowens was now in the full bloom of ornamental sorrow.  A very shallow crape bonnet, frilled and froth-like, allowed the parted raven hair to show its glossy smoothness.  A jet pin heaved upon her bosom with every sigh of memory, or emotion of unknown origin.  Jet bracelets shone with every movement of her slender hands, cased in close-fitting black gloves.  Her sable dress was ridged with manifold flounces, from beneath which a small foot showed itself from time to time, clad in the same hue of mourning.  Everything about her was dark, except the whites of her eyes and the enamel of her teeth.  The effect was complete.  Gray’s Elegy was not a more perfect composition.

Much as the Widow was pleased with the costume belonging to her condition, she did not disguise from herself that under certain circumstances she might be willing to change her name again.  Thus, for instance, if a gentleman not too far gone in maturity, of dignified exterior, with an ample fortune, and of unexceptionable character, should happen to set his heart upon her, and the only way to make him happy was to give up her weeds and go into those unbecoming colors again for his sake,—­why, she felt that it was in her nature to make the sacrifice.  By a singular coincidence it happened that a gentleman was now living in Rockland who united in himself all these advantages.  Who he was, the sagacious reader may very probably have divined.  Just to see how it looked, one day, having bolted her door, and drawn the curtains close, and glanced under the sofa, and listened at the keyhole to be sure there was nobody in the entry,—­just to see how it looked, she had taken out an envelope and written on the back of it Mrs. Marila Venner. It made her head swim and her knees tremble.  What if she should faint, or die, or have a stroke of palsy, and they should break into the room and find that name written?  How she caught it up and tore it into little shreds, and then could not be easy until she had burned the small heap of pieces!  But these are things which every honorable reader will consider imparted in strict confidence.

The Widow Rowens, though not of the mansion-house set, was among the most genteel of the two-story circle, and was in the habit of visiting some of the great people.  In one of these visits she met a dashing young fellow with an olive complexion at the house of a professional gentleman who had married one of the white necks and pairs of fat arms from a distinguished family before referred to.  The professional gentleman himself was out, but the lady introduced the olive-complexioned young man as Mr. Richard Venner.

The Widow was particularly pleased with this accidental meeting.  Had heard Mr. Venner’s name frequently mentioned.  Hoped his uncle was well, and his charming cousin,—­was she as original as ever?  Had often admired that charming creature he rode:  we had had some fine horses.  Had never got over her taste for riding, but could find nobody that liked a good long gallop since—­well—­she couldn’t help wishing she was alongside of him, the other day, when she saw him dashing by, just at twilight.