“And that puppy, perdition seize him! takes her to be a young widow; is thinking now perhaps of asking her to be his wife! His wife!” And here Alexander ground down unuttered curses between his set teeth. Ah, could he have looked into his young wife’s heart, his anger must have been appeased. Could he have seen how little she cared for all the homage she received, except in so much as it might make her more worthy in his eyes. Truly she smiled on the young duke at her side—not because he was young and handsome and a duke, but because it was her sunny, genial, grateful nature to smile on all who tried to please her. Yes! to smile on all who tried to please _her_, while from the depth of her heart she sighed to please but one on earth. Alexander found food enough for his insane jealousy. Drusilla was the acknowledged beauty of the season. Everywhere he heard her murmured praises. Every one supposed her to be a young widow. Some genius, indebted to his imagination for his facts, had fancied that because Mrs. Lyon the supposed young widow, was niece-in-law to old General Lyon, therefore the husband of Mrs. Lyon had been a military officer who had been killed in the war between the United States and Mexico; and had so effectually started the report that before the evening was over every one had heard that Captain Lyon had been shot while gallantly leading his company at the storming of Chepultepec. Of course this report never once reached the ears of the General or Mrs. Lyon, or of Mr. or Mrs. Hammond. Reports seldom do reach the ears of those most concerned in them; and false reports never. But Alexander was doomed to hear it all. “Kill have you seen the newest beauty out?” inquired young Hepsworth of the Dragoons. “There she is dancing with Prince Ernest of Hohenlinden. She is engaged ten sets deep; but I come in for the eleventh for the Lancers. That is after supper. Look at her now, as she turns. Isn’t she perfect? Just perfect?” “Who is she?” growled Alexander, feeling himself called upon to say something. “Who is she? Not Satan in the form of an angel of light, as one might judge from the tone of your question. She is Mrs. Lyon, a young widow, though you would hardly suppose her ever to have been a wife. But you know how early girls marry in America, stepping from the cradle to the altar, one might say. However, that young creature has been married and widowed. Husband, gallant fellow, lost his life in leading a forlorn hope in the storming of Chehuaple—Chehuapaw—Chehua-peltemback, or some such barbarously named place.” “Oh! he did, did he?” “Oh, yes, bless you! And I am very much obliged to him for doing so; but she was perfectly inconsolable for three years. But she has at last left off her weeds, as you see. And we may suppose she is in the market.” “Ah! she is, is she?” “Oh, yes! Lovely creature? And _stu_-PEN-_dously_ rich too,” exclaimed the dragoon. “Oh, she is rich?” sneered Alexander.