Upon a mind so artless as that of Florence, this singular note, which was without signature, produced a very pleasing influence, and excited a lively interest for the unknown writer. The idea of possessing such a friend inspired her with a degree of confidence such as she had not known since the death of her husband. Nor to that one note did the unknown limit his attentions—they were manifested in various ways. Ofttimes in the sweet language of flowers they were spoken—or to her little boudoir some rare and exquisite painting found its way. Books, too, with penciled margins, all evincing a pure and elegant perception; music, which, when awakened by her fingers, breathed the very spirit of melody; and when from the same unknown hand there came a beautiful cage, whence the tiny warbler trilled forth in sweetest notes her favorite airs, Florence was lost in amazement. Who, then, was this mysterious person who so well understood her tastes, and who was thus ever studying her happiness? The note had stated: “There are important reasons why you should not know me.” And Florence was possessed of too much delicacy, and had too much respect for the writer of the note to seek to penetrate the mystery. Yet by the use which she made of his gifts, her silent thanks to the donor were expressed, and insensibly yielding to the delightful associations they called forth, she felt as if some kind guardian was ever near shielding her from evil. Oft amid the rich braids of her hair those fragrant flowers were intertwined, or rested above a heart not less pure than themselves. The books acquired a new interest that other eyes had dwelt also upon their pages; and never did her fingers so skillfully or so tenderly touch the keys, as when before her was the music which the unknown had conveyed to her; many times, too, the soft, sweet tones of a flute were heard echoing the strain. When first they reached her ear, Florence hushed her instrument and closed the window; but at midnight, again and again the same sweet strains floated around her, and then she felt it could be no other than the unknown, who, in music’s gentle voice, addressed her, and this belief added greatly to the charmed life she was leading, thus mysteriously watched over and protected. It was now that chance brought her acquainted with a person whom we must allow to introduce himself to the reader by the following letter: “_From Charles Crayford to his friend, Hastings._ “I am in luck, my dear fellow; give me joy, for Fortune, blessed goddess, hath at length wafted me to the favor of wealth and beauty. ’Pon my soul, I know not which I am the most in love with, the person or the fortune of the divinity. Her name is May—Florence May. She is a widow—a young, blooming, bewitching widow, with half a million at her own free disposal, and, happily, without a relative in the world, or jealous guardian to cavil about disparity of fortune, or pry into secrets.