The occasion was one of such interest, that the preacher could but make the most of it. After the nuptial benediction had been pronounced, he straightway launched forth into a homily of such graciousness and force, that but few of us missed being forcibly wrought upon, while Mrs. Rose was stirred apparently to the depths of her being. On the day succeeding the marriage, our light-hearted Benedict abandoned himself to another jollification. But the next morning, a schooner headed in towards the beach, and, slackening the peaks of her sails, sent ashore a yawl, whose crew saluted Mrs. Rose as an old and familiar friend, and with whose apparition, without the least regard as to what shift we wreckers were to make, a great packing was begun in the house. Bedsteads were taken down, beds were bundled up in sheets, crockery was thrust away in barrels, and all borne one after the other to the yawl, where the bride, with her potent parasol full spread, and pretending to shudder at the sight of the gently heaving breakers through which she was soon to pass, mincingly threw herself in the thick of the luggage, and old Bill mounted the stern, with his huge palm extended for a good-by shake. 'Good-by, old chap,' said I, as I took his hand the last of all, 'good-by! You're not half mean enough to stay away from us forever; so in the meantime do your best to show the Hatteras boys what a nice thing it is to be somebody in the world!' And thus the boat put off, and, reaching the schooner in a few moments, was hoisted to her decks. In a few moments more the vessel had reset her sails, and, with a free wind, bore straight to the southward out of sight. Now comes the singular part of my story. In a few weeks from the time of their sailing, we heard that old Bill and his wife had safely landed at Hatteras Inlet, and rented a small house on one of the beaches there, with the intention of opening a kind of tavern; but no sooner were they fairly settled in their new abode than old Bill was found one morning _dead in his bed_, with evident signs of having met with foul play; though what kind of death these indications pointed at was very uncertain. The closest and shrewdest investigation failed to attach a well-grounded suspicion to any one. Poor Bill was dead--and nothing more was ever known. Singular enough, the conduct of his widow was such as to entirely avert even from her enemies hints of complicity in the crime,--if crime there was,--though none doubted that there had been a murder, and that murder in a few attendant circumstances seemed to indicate female aid. Shortly after this catastrophe, Madame Rose made 'a vendue' of her deceased husband's gun and apparel, packed up her own worldly goods, and vanished, to be heard of no more.