What do young men talk about when they sit at the open windows smoking on summer evenings? Do you suppose it is of love? Indeed, I suspect it is of money; or, if not of money, then, at least, of something that either makes money or spends it. Cleve Sullivan has been spending his for four years in Europe, and he has just been telling his friend John Selden how he spent it. John has spent his in New York--he is inclined to think just as profitably. Both stories conclude in the same way. "I have not a thousand dollars left, John." "Nor I, Cleve." "I thought your cousin died two years ago; surely you have not spent all the old gentleman's money already?" "I only got $20,000; I owed half of it." "Only $20,000! What did he do with it?" "Gave it to his wife. He married a beauty about a year after you went away, died in a few months afterward, and left her his whole fortune. I had no claim on him. He educated me, gave me a profession, and $20,000. That was very well: he was only my mother's cousin." "And the widow--where is she?" "Living at his country-seat. I have never seen her. She was one of the St. Maurs, of Maryland." "Good family, and all beauties. Why don't you marry the widow?" "Why, I never thought of such a thing." "You can't think of anything better. Write her a little note at once; say that you and I will soon be in her neighborhood, and that gratitude to your cousin, and all that kind of thing--then beg leave to call and pay respects," etc., etc. John demurred a good deal to the plan, but Cleve was masterful, and the note was written, Cleve himself putting it in the post-office. That was on Monday night. On Wednesday morning the widow Clare found it with a dozen others upon her breakfast table. She was a dainty, high-bred little lady, with "Eyes that drowse with dreamy splendor, Cheeks with rose-leaf tintings tender, Lips like fragrant posy," and withal a kind, hospitable temper, well inclined to be happy in the happiness of others. But this letter could not be answered with the usual polite formula. She was quite aware that John Selden had regarded himself for many years as his cousin's heir, and that her marriage with the late Thomas Clare had seriously altered his prospects. Women easily see through the best laid plans of men, and this plan was transparent enough to the shrewd little widow. John would scarcely have liked the half-contemptuous shrug and smile which terminated her private thoughts on the matter. "Clementine, if you could spare a moment from your fashion paper, I want to consult you, dear, about a visitor." Clementine raised her blue eyes, dropped her paper, and said, "Who is it, Fan?" "It is John Selden. If Mr. Clare had not married me, he would have inherited the Clare estate. I think he is coming now in order to see if it is worth while asking for, encumbered by his cousin's widow."