And something of an offence it was in this instance.  In the first place Margaret Callaghan had lived nearly twenty years with the Bilkins family, and the old people—­there were no children now—­had rewarded this long service by taking Margaret into their affections.  It was a piece of subtle ingratitude for her to marry without admitting the worthy couple to her confidence.  In the next place, Margaret had married a man some eighteen years younger than herself.  That was the young man’s lookout, you say.  We hold it was Margaret that was to blame.  What does a young blade of twenty-two know?  Not half so much as he thinks he does.  His exhaustless ignorance at that age is a discovery which is left for him to make in his prime.

  “Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,
    Billing and cooing is all your cheer;
  Sighing and singing of midnight strains,
    Under Bonnybells window panes,—­
    Wait till you come to Forty Year!”

In one sense Margaret’s husband had come to forty year—­she was forty to a day.

Mrs. Margaret O’Rourke, with the baddish cat following closely at her heels, entered the Bilkins mansion, reached her chamber in the attic without being intercepted, and there laid aside her finery.  Two or three times, while arranging her more humble attire, she paused to take a look at the marriage certificate, which she had deposited between the leaves of her Prayer-Book, and on each occasion held that potent document upside down; for Margaret’s literary culture was of the severest order, and excluded the art of reading.

The breakfast was late that morning.  As Mrs. O’Rourke set the coffee-urn in front of Mrs. Bilkins and flanked Mr. Bilkins with the broiled mackerel and buttered toast, Mrs. O’Rourke’s conscience smote her.  She afterwards declared that when she saw the two sitting there so innocent-like, not dreaming of the comether she had put upon them, she secretly and unbeknownt let a few tears fall into the cream-pitcher.  Whether or not it was this material expression of Margaret’s penitence that spoiled the coffee does not admit of inquiry; but the coffee was bad.  In fact, the whole breakfast was a comedy of errors.

It was a blessed relief to Margaret when the meal was ended.  She retired in a cold perspiration to the penetralia of the kitchen, and it was remarked by both Mr. and Mrs. Bilkins that those short flights of vocalism—­apropos of the personal charms of one Kate Kearney, who lived on the banks of Killarney—­which ordinarily issued from the direction of the scullery we’re unheard that forenoon.

The town clock was striking eleven, and the antiquated time-piece on the staircase (which never spoke but it dropped pearls and crystals, like the fairy in the story) was lisping the hour, when there came three tremendous knocks at the street door.  Mrs. Bilkins, who was dusting the brass-mounted chronometer in the hall, stood transfixed, with arm uplifted.  The admirable old lady had for years been carrying on a guerilla warfare with itinerant venders of furniture polish, and pain-killer, and crockery cement and the like.  The effrontery of the triple knock convinced her the enemy was at her gates—­possibly that dissolute creature with twenty-four sheets of note-paper and twenty-four envelopes for fifteen cents.