Very limited was the society which Abel May admitted within his walls, and those only such as he considered worthy of his friendship and confidence. This gave no disquiet to Florence; indeed, company rather pained than pleased her. Her most delightful hours were those in which she could add to the happiness of the old man, by the exercise of those agreeable sources of entertainment owing their origin to him, or when with pencil or book, alone in the beautiful little apartment which the same kind hand had fitted up expressly for her use, the moments flew unheeding in the all absorbing interest they inspired. Occasionally, at the Opera or Theatres, old Abel May appeared with his beautiful young wife; or perhaps, in the delightful coolness of a summer’s morning, ere yet the noisy din of the city pervaded the air, or the dust of its countless thoroughfares swept over the dewy freshness of night, they sauntered through the silent streets or shady avenues of Washington Square. But more frequently still within the sacred precincts of Laurel Hill were they seen to wander. In one of its most retired spots, where a cluster of drooping willows brushed the dew-drops from the tall, rank grass, and the murmur of the wave below came up sadly yet sweetly upon the ear, a plain monumental stone was planted. “My Father Sleeps,” was the only sign it bore; and to this consecrated spot did their steps most often turn, for well did one fond heart know _who_ slept so peaceful there, and over this hallowed grave the fair form of Florence bent in filial devotion. Wherever she appeared the admiration she attracted was universal; and if some were prone to pity her lot, as being bound by such indissoluble ties to old Abel May, they were quite at fault by her bright, sunny countenance which certainly bore no traces of hidden sorrows for their sympathies to probe. This might have flattered the pride of the old man while it aroused his fears. His own life he knew, in the common course of nature, could not be prolonged many years, and then what was to become of that young girl thus thrown a second time upon the world, so beautiful and so unprotected. There was but one person whom he ever mentioned in terms of affection to Florence, and this was his nephew, and the only son of a favorite brother, long since dead, who bore his name, and whom he had destined for his heir. But for many years young Abel May had not been heard from, and his friends had finally given up all expectations of ever seeing him again. It was said that being repeatedly reproached by envious relatives on account of the interest his rich uncle manifested for him, calling him a poor gentleman—a hanger-on—only waiting to step into dead men’s shoes, with remarks of the like nature, originating in low, vulgar minds, and that being a lad of high spirit, he became disgusted and angered, and vowing he would either make his own fortune or never return, young May suddenly disappeared.