“By-the-bye,” he said, presently, “your sister was married to old Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t she? I saw the notice in the papers. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. Will you forgive me—if I say no more?” She looked at him with perplexed, earnest eyes. Emerging from this aperture, he was about to descend, when he was alarmed by hearing the tramp of horses' feet swiftly approaching, and had only time to hide himself behind one of the largest signboards before alluded to when two horsemen rode up. The bump was coarse and didn’t feel right. Her eyelids fluttered with recognition, and she cried out softly. She is setting out for Hartford, Connecticut. Had this not been the case, he must have refused even to see his Frenchified granddaughter. Perhaps marriage hurt. “You shall,” she said.
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