There was a ghost-like stealthiness to Miss Margaret’s movements, though there was nothing whatever of the ghost about Miss Margaret herself.  She was a plump, short person, no longer young, with coal-black hair growing low on the forehead, and a round face that would have been nearly meaningless if the features had not been emphasized—­italicized, so to speak—­by the small-pox.  Moreover, the brilliancy of her toilet would have rendered any ghostly hypothesis untenable.  Mrs. Solomon (we refer to the dressiest Mrs. Solomon, which ever one that was) in all her glory was not arrayed like Miss Margaret on that eventful summer morning.  She wore a light-green, shot-silk frock, a blazing red shawl, and a yellow crape bonnet profusely decorated with azure, orange, and magenta artificial flowers.  In her hand she carried a white parasol.  The newly risen sun, ricocheting from the bosom of the river and striking point-blank on the top-knot of Miss Margaret’s gorgeousness, made her an imposing spectacle in the quiet street of that Puritan village.  But, in spite of the bravery of her apparel, she stole guiltily along by garden walls and fences until she reached a small, dingy frame-house near the wharves, in the darkened doorway of which she quenched her burning splendor, if so bold a figure is permissible.

Three quarters of an hour passed.  The sunshine moved slowly up Anchor Street, fingered noiselessly the well-kept brass knockers on either side, and drained the heeltaps of dew which had been left from the revels of the fairies overnight in the cups of the morning-glories.  Not a soul was stirring yet in this part of the town, though the Rivermouthians are such early birds that not a worm may be said to escape them.  By and by one of the brown Holland shades at one of the upper windows of the Bilkins Mansion—­the house from which Miss Margaret had emerged—­was drawn up, and old Mr. Bilkins in spiral nightcap looked out on the sunny street.  Not a living creature was to be seen, save the dissipated family cat—­a very Lovelace of a cat that was not allowed a night-key—­who was sitting on the curbstone opposite, waiting for the hall door to be opened.  Three quarters of an hour, we repeat, had passed, when Mrs. Margaret O’Rourke, nee Callaghan, issued from the small, dingy house by the river, and regained the door-step of the Bilkins mansion in the same stealthy fashion in which she had left it.

Not to prolong a mystery that must already oppress the reader, Mr. Bilkins’s cook had, after the manner of her kind, stolen out of the premises before the family were up, and got herself married—­surreptitiously and artfully married, as if matrimony were an indictable offence.