"Hark 'ee, Ben," said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe upon the hob; "you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the Thames to-night. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. That's how I finally got wind of it. ’ ‘She?’ scoffed Martha. ‘I find you excessively rude. ‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. A piece of old blanket was fastened across her shoulders, and she had no other clothing except a petticoat.
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