"There is one more," said the Professor.

"What is that?" asked Toney.

"W. W.," said the Professor.

"Winsome Wooer," suggested Seddon.

"That completes the list," said the Professor, looking over his note-book and making another entry.

"Bliss is the Winsome Wooer. Toney, how did you procure this curious doc.u.ment?"

"It came into my possession under very extraordinary circ.u.mstances,"

said Toney. "Would you like to hear the story?"

"I would, indeed," said the Professor.

"Let us have it," said Tom.

"You have heard me speak of the Widow Wild, who lives in the vicinity of Mapleton?" said Toney.

"Frequently," said Tom.

"The widow has a very handsome residence, and in it dwells a very pretty daughter."

"The lovely Rosabel Wild?" said Tom.

"How did you learn her name?" inquired Toney.

"Oh, I have learned that and much more in addition," said Tom.

"What more?" said Toney.

"I have been credibly informed that a certain young lawyer, who answers to the name of Toney Belton, and who seldom deigns to look at any other woman, is wonderfully enchanted and woefully bewitched by the lovely Rosabel Wild. Is it not so? Come, make a clean breast of it, Toney. An honest confession is good for the soul?"

"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 const.i.tution 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; The moon on the midnight her splendor is pouring.

Wake, fairest, awake! from thy window now see, Like a saint at his shrine, thy lover adoring.

'Come, beautiful, forth on thy balcony high, While silver-toned music around thee is floating; And yon shooting-star shall come down from the sky, Like a slave at thy feet his homage devoting.

'Nay, venture not, dearest! lest over the air Some spirits should chance to be wand'ring this even; And, deeming thee some truant angel now there, Might steal thee away to their home in the heaven.'

"'Rosabel,' said I, 'how can you refrain from jumping out the window when a pretty little man like Dove invites you to come forth and behold "thy lover adoring"?'

"'But,' said Rosabel, 'in the last verse he warns me not to venture.'

"'That is true,' said I; 'the little man manifests a wonderful solicitude for your safety. He is apprehensive lest you might be arrested as a runaway angel,--a fugitive from service.'

"'Hist! hist!' said Rosabel.

"'That is Love,' said I; and the voice of the serenader was heard singing,--

'The silvery cloudlets now are weeping, love, Sweet dewdrops on the flowers, And mellow moonlight now is creeping, love, Under the ivy bowers.

And thou hast heard the vesper hymn That stirred the balmy air, When, as the shadows grew more dim, The pious met in prayer.

'Their sacred rosaries they were counting, love, Unto their saints in heaven, And telling them to what a mountain, love, Their sins had grown this even.

While thus to saints on high they pour Their prayers at evening bland, I am contented to adore An angel near at hand.'

"'Oh, Rosabel!' I exclaimed, 'I always thought you were an angel, and now I know it, for both Love and Dove have testified to the fact. Out of the mouths of two witnesses has the truth been established. You are an angel, Rosabel, but please don't fly away.'

"'Nonsense, Toney! Don't go crazy. Be quiet--hush! Listen!'

"'That is Bliss,' said I; and we heard him singing,--

'My little, lovely, laughing maid!

So great a thief thou art, I do declare, I am afraid Thou'st stolen all my heart.

'Thou'st stolen the lily's purest white, Thou'st stolen the rose's hue, Thou'st stolen each flow'ret's beauties bright, And stolen my poor heart too.

'Well, little rogue, come help yourself, Your robberies repeat, And take the rest of the poor elf Who's sighing at your feet.'

"'He accuses you of felony,' said I. 'Oh, Rosabel! why did you, after having perpetrated so many larcenies among the flower-beds, steal the poor little man's heart?'

"'What would I want with his heart?' said Rosabel, pouting.