midnight
The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us , and we see nothing but sand ; the angels come to visit us , and we only know them when they are gone . But , as I said , the morning was sunny , the bells were ringing , the ladies of Milby were dressed in their Sunday garments . And who is this bright-looking woman walking with hasty step along Orchard Street so early , with a large nosegay in her hand ? Can it be Janet Dempster , on whom we looked with such deep pity , one sad midnight , hardly a fortnight ago ? Yes ; no other woman in Milby has those searching black eyes , that tall graceful unconstrained figure , set off by her simple muslin dress and black lace shawl , that massy black hair now so neatly braided in glossy contrast with the white satin ribbons of her modest cap and bonnet . No other woman has that sweet speaking smile , with which she nods to Jonathan Lamb , the old parish clerk . And , ah !