welcome at the little house on Commonwealth Street, and amongst
the neighbours his name and that of Florence Fenacre were coupled
as a matter of course and every old lady within a radius of three
miles regarded the match as good as settled. It was not Frank's
fault that it was not, for he was deeply in love with the widow's
daughter and looked forward to such an end to their acquaintance
as the very dearest thing fate could give him. But in these
affairs it is necessary to carry the lady with you--and the lady,
though she had never said "no," had not yet been prevailed upon to
say "yes." In fact she preferred to leave the matter as it was,
and boldly forestalling a set proposal, had managed to convey to
Frank Rignold that it was her wish he should not make one.

"Let us be good friends," she would say, "and as for anything
else, Frank, there's plenty of time to consider that by and by.
Isn't it enough already that we like each other?"

Frank did not think it was enough, but he was not without
intuition and willing to accept the little offered him and be
grateful--rather than risk all, and almost certainly lose all, by
too exigent a suit. For Florence Fenacre was the acknowledged
beauty of the town, with a dozen eligible men at her feet, and was
more courted and sought after than any girl in the place. The
place, to give it its name, was Bridgeport, one of those dead-
alive little ports on the Atlantic seaboard, with a dozen
factories and some decaying wharves and that tranquil air of
having had a past.

The widow and her pretty daughter lived in a low-roofed, red-brick
house that faced the street and sheltered a long deep shady garden