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.” The neighborhood were kept alive with surmises as to who would win the rich heiress, daily expecting to see a gay wedding party issuing forth, in contrast to the gloomy funereal spectacle so lately before them. Yet weeks and months rolled on uneventful. What could it mean? Was the widow crazy or bewitched? How could she remain so unconcerned when her fortune was at stake! Day after day was poverty stealthily drawing nearer, in as much as she still neglected to fulfill the terms on which her fortune rested, and yet she moved about as careless and indifferent as though the comforts and elegancies which surrounded her were unconditionally hers—what a strange creature she must be! It was thus reasoned the “lookers on in Venice.” Six months of widowhood were passed. Florence was still unmarried; and once more the relatives took heart against despair, and golden visions mingled in their day-dreams. Her obstinacy was to them inexplicable—for they knew upon the separate assurances of the several nephews and cousins that she had had _unexceptionable_ offers, and if from those choice specimens of man she could not select a husband, why, of course, they had reason to hope she never would be married. Such was the state of affairs, when one day Florence received the following note, written in an unknown hand, accompanied with a bouquet of beautiful flowers: “MADAM,—I have seen you, and who that has once looked upon you but must adore you! I dare not approach you, nor would I mingle with the throng of flatterers around you. Enough for me to worship at a distance, and to guard with my whole soul that treasure which may never be mine. My life I would willingly lay at your feet, but there are important reasons why you should not know me. Of one thing, madam, rest assured, you have a friend who will secretly watch over you, and guard you from every danger.”