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It must have delighted Police Officer Hovenden to see his daughter being squired by the son of such an important English gentleman. But Hovenden was also apprehensive. For one thing, Frederick Halpin Jr. appeared to have inherited none of his father’s aptitude with the graver. Frederick was learning to be a bookbinder, which was a fine and respectable craft, but he always seemed to be ailing, with a chronic cough and a pallid hue to his skin. In general, he was in “poor health,” and it made Hovenden wonder whether this was the right match for his daughter.

The dark clouds of war were passing. The South had surrendered, slavery was abolished, and the Union had been preserved, but at a staggering cost—620,000 dead. That is more than the combined number of American casualties in the two world wars that were to come in the 20th century. Confederate soldiers staggered back to their homes, and the 1-million-warrior-strong Grand Army of the Republic that had saved the Union was disbanded. The nation now faced an uncertain peace.

After these four lost years of blood-soaked conflict, family life resumed. Maria Hovenden married her beau from Brooklyn, and in quick order, first came a son, Freddie, born in 1863; and two years later, a daughter, Ada.

The Halpins were settling in and raising their children when Freddie, at age four, became seriously ill. A photo taken of Freddie in 1867 shows the boy in distress. In that era it was a ritual for a child who was facing death to be dressed for a photo in his or her Sunday best so that, should the worst happen, the little one’s memory would be preserved. In Freddie’s photograph, he is in misery—so fragile and bent it looks as though he could slip off the chair. He’s wearing knickers fluffed up at the knees, and significantly, his high-button shoelaces hang untied. According to Halpin family lore, Maria could not tie them because Freddie’s feet were so swollen, which may suggest that he was suffering from acute rheumatic fever, which can sometimes lead to kidney damage and edema in the legs. On the back of the photo is written, “Sick and expected to die.” By some miracle, Freddie pulled through, and Maria Halpin was able to breathe again.

As Maria was raising her family, three hundred miles away in Buffalo, Grover Cleveland was enjoying the freedom of confirmed bachelorhood.

As he had predicted, his appointment as Erie County assistant district attorney to the elderly and infirm Cyrenius C. Torrance had left him de facto in charge of the office. For the three years that Cleveland stayed on as prosecutor, his workload was intense. Cleveland personally tried half the criminal cases that went to trial in Erie County. It was common to find Cleveland toiling at his desk in the county courthouse until three o’clock in the morning, preparing for trial, and then see him come in at 8:00 a.m., ready to argue the case before a jury. In 1865, the ineffectual Torrance was forced into retirement by party power brokers, and Cleveland was awarded the nomination for district attorney.

At age twenty-eight, Cleveland was still living at the Southern Hotel, though he was now sharing a room with another gifted young lawyer, Lyman K. Bass. They were the same age, and like Grover Cleveland, Bass came from humble roots; his father owned a hardware store in Buffalo. Politically, however, they played in different arenas. A few days after Cleveland informed his roommate that he was running for district attorney as a Democrat, Bass came home with some news of his own.

“Well, Cleve, I have been offered the nomination for district attorney against you.”

“Well,” responded Cleveland, “why don’t you take it?” And Bass did, running on the Republican ticket.

The roommates enjoyed each other’s company and remained steadfast friends, getting together on many occasions to hoist a few beers even during the heat of the campaign. At one of these sit-downs, Cleveland and Bass made a gentlemen’s agreement to restrict their consumption of beer to just