Waterman went with Burr to the widow's house in First street, and the young doctor and Mrs. Keating were pleased with each other's appearance at first sight.
Mrs. Keating was very sad, it is true, but Waterman was a merry wight, and we are pleased with our opposites. The mournful tones of the fair penitent struck an answering chord in the heart of Waterman, and he was in love with her before he left the house.
Burr, with his deep penetration into human nature, had forseen this. He knew that the widow had been in love with him. She had been affected by his supposed condition, and he had carried her by a coup de main; but Waterman she really loved.
Burr went home, and left the fire which he had kindled to burn brighter and brighter until the question should be popped.
Waterman became a frequent visitor at the house of the lovely widow, and forgot to renew the scare-crow poster on his liquorice; so that the box rapidly approached a state of emptiness.
The widow was gradually beguiled of her sorrows by the tender assiduities of Waterman, whom she loved with all the fervor of her ardent nature; but a shade of deep despondency would occasionally cross her features; especially when her lover extolled her moral qualities. Finally she grew so melancholly, or, rather these moments of despondency occurred so often, that Waterman gently entreated her to make known to him what afflicted her so deeply.
She then confessed to him her fault—told him all that had occurred between herself and Burr—and, with sobs and tears, protested her utter unworthiness to be the wife of so honorable a man as Waterman.
Waterman fixed his eyes intently upon the lady all the time that she was speaking, and when she told all, he arose slowly to his feet, turned on his heel, and left the house without uttering a word.
That was a dreadful moment for the poor widow. To have lost for ever the one whom she loved to distraction was quite enough—but to have incurred his contempt also—that he should leave her without even a word of commisseration—that he should have cast her off like some abominable thing, that he would not touch for fear of pollution!
But while she is wringing her hands in agony, and almost cursing the watchman who saved her from the overwhelming waters, a step is heard in the entry—the door opens, and Waterman enters; but he is not alone. A grave personage, in a large hat, black coat and breeches, black stockings, and neat white neckcloth, with black silk gloves on his hands, follows her lover into the room.
It is a minister of the Gospel. What can be his errand there?
The lady looked wildly, first at the stranger, then at Waterman.
"This, I presume, is the bride," said the black-coated man.
