Everybody felt that somebody should do something
for the widow. A few did it. Her own sex rallied to her side,
generally with large sympathy, but, unfortunately, small pecuniary
or practical result. At last, when the feasibility of her taking a
boarding-house in San Francisco, and identifying herself with that
large class of American gentlewomen who have seen better days, but
clearly are on the road never to see them again, was suggested, a
few of her own and her husband's rich relatives came to the front
to rehabilitate her. It was easier to take her into their homes as
an equal than to refuse to call upon her as the mistress of a
lodging-house in the adjoining street. And upon inspection it was
found that she was still quite an eligible partie, prepossessing,
and withal, in her widow's weeds, a kind of poetical and
sentimental presence, as necessary in a wealthy and fashionable
American family as a work of art. "Yes, poor Caroline has had a
sad, sad history," the languid Mrs. Walker Catron would say, "and
we all sympathize with her deeply; Walker always regards her as a
sister.
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