Cora, who, since the death of the grandmother, had deeply pitied the grandfather, yielded to his wishes in this respect, though much against her secret inclination.  She did not leave off her widow’s mourning, but she modified it when she presided at the head of the Rockharrt table on those frequent occasions of the sumptuous and unrivaled dinners given by the Iron King to those whose fortunes he was making, with his own, by his mammoth enterprise.

The old man was certainly the lion of the season.  He had steadily gone on from step to step on the ladder of fame (for enormous wealth), until now he was quoted as not only the richest man of his State, but as one of the ten richest men in the world.

It was at this time that Mr. Fabian bethought himself of taking a wife.  It was indeed quite time that he should marry, if he ever intended to do so.  He was nearly fifty-two years of age, though looking no more than forty; his erect and active figure, his fresh and smooth complexion, his curling brown hair and beard, his smiling countenance and cheerful demeanor, rendered him quite an attractive man to young ladies, who credited him with fully twenty years less than his due.

There was, at this time, among the lovely “rosebuds” opening in the fashionable drawing rooms of the city, a sweet “wood violet,” otherwise Violet Wood; a perfect blonde, with perfect features and a petite figure.  Her beauty was peculiar; she was very small, very dainty; her hair the palest yellow, her face so white that almost the only color on her features were her deep blue eyes and crimson lips.

She was an orphan heiress, without any near relation in the world.  Though but eighteen years of age, and just from school, she had already entered on the possession of her fortune by the terms of her father’s will.  She lived with her former guardians, the Chief Justice Pendletime and his wife.

They had given a grand ball to introduce their ward into society.  The Rockharrts had been invited, of course.  And they had all been present.  The Wood Violet, as admirers transposed her name, was equally, of course, the belle of the evening.

The tall, towering sunflower, Mr. Fabian, fell instantly and irrecoverably in love with this tiny white wood violet.  Many others fell in love with her, but none to the depth of Mr. Fabian.  He resolved to “take time by the forelock,” “not to let the grass grow under his feet” in this love chase.

The very next morning he said to his father: 

“You have lately expressed a wish to see me married, sir.  I have been, in obedience to your commands, looking out for a wife.  I think I have found a woman to suit me, and, what is more to the purpose, to suit you, sir.  However, if I should be mistaken in your taste, I shall, of course, give up the thought of proposing to her,” added artful Mr. Fabian, who felt perfectly sure that his father would approve his choice.