It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. "Here I am, Captain," cried a voice from without. It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. That good woman, although astonished to hear of Martha’s conversion to Catholicism and embracing of a religious sisterhood, responded with the news of Jarvis Remenham’s death. I do not think that you will dare to marry anybody else.
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