urtleff in the family pew with a face as
complacent as that of the cat that has eaten the canary. Presently the
deacons appeal to her for information touching the good doctor. Mistress
Shurtleff sweetly tells them that the good doctor was in his study when
she left home. There he is found, indeed, and released from durance,
begging the deacons to keep his mortification secret, to "give it an
understanding, but no tongue." Such was the discipline undergone by
the worthy Dr. Shurtleff on his earthly pilgrimage. A portrait of
this patient man--now a saint somewhere--hangs in the rooms of the New
England Historical and Genealogical Society in Boston. There he can be
seen in surplice and bands, with his lamblike, apostolic face looking
down upon the heavy antiquarian labors of his busy descendants.

Whether or not a man is to be classed as eccentric who vanishes without
rhyme or reason on his wedding-night is a query left to the reader's
decision. We seem to have struck a matrimonial vein, and must work
it out. In 1768, Mr. James McDonough was one of the wealthiest men in
Portsmouth, and the fortunate suitor for the hand of a daughter of Jacob
Sheafe, a town magnate. The home of the bride was decked and lighted
for the nuptials, the banquet-table was spread, and the guests were
gathered. The minister in his robe stood by the carven mantelpiece,
book in hand, and waited. Then followed an awkward interval--there was
a hitch somewhere. A strange silence fell upon the laughing groups; the
air grew tense with expectation; in the pantry, Amos Boggs, the butler,
in his agitation split a bottle of port over his new cinnamon-colored
small-clothes. Then a whisper--a whisper suppressed these twenty
minutes--ran through the apartments,--"The bridegroom has not come!". He
never came. The mystery of that night remains a mystery after the lapse
of a century and a quarter.

What had become of James McDonough? The assassination of so notable a
person in a community where every strange face was challenged, where
every man's antecedents were known, could not have been accomplished
without leaving some slight traces. Not a shadow of foul play was
discovered. That McDonough had been murdered or had committed suicide
were theories accepted at first by a few, and then by no one. On the
other hand, he was in love with his fiancee, he had wealth, power,
position--why had he fled? He was seen a moment on the public street,
and then never seen again.