Two years are supposed to elapse between the third and fourth
chapters of this original American romance.

A manly Mormon, one evening, as the sun was preparing to set
among a select apartment of gold and crimson clouds in the
western horizon--although for that matter the sun has a right to
"set" where it wants to, and so, I may add has a hen--a manly
Mormon, I say, tapped gently at the door of the mansion of the
late Reginald Gloverson.

The door was opened by Mrs. Sarah Gloverson.

"Is this the house of the widow Gloverson!" the Mormon asked.

"It is," said Susan.

"And how many is there of she?" inquired the Mormon.

"There is about twenty of her, including me," courteously
returned the fair Susan.

"Can I see her?"

"You can."

"Madam," he softly said, addressing the twenty disconsolate
widows. "I have seen part of you before! And although I have
already twenty-five wives, whom I respect and tenderly care for,
I can truly say that I never felt love's holy thrill till I saw
thee! Be mine--be mine!" he enthusiastically cried, "and we will