"Yes," she said, with a sigh; "my brother gave me that when I was a little girl. A very long time ago that, Captain Murpoint!"
"Not very, indeed!" said the captain, with subdued gallantry. "It contains his portrait, I suppose?"
"No, I am sorry to say that it does not. I have no miniature of poor John," she replied, with a sigh. "I would give anything for one painted while he was alive."
"Would you?" said the captain, with a curious earnestness. "Then I think—I hope you are nearer obtaining your desire than you imagine."
"Indeed!" said Mrs. Mildmay; "how so?—Violet, we have awakened you?"
"No, auntie," said Violet, whose eyes had opened and whose face was pale with earnestness and painful interest.
"Some years ago," said the captain, leaning forward and addressing both ladies, but keeping his eyes upon Violet's face, "my dear friend promised that he would have his portrait painted in water-colors so that I might wear it. At that time we were staying at Calcutta. In the market-place there was a wonderful miniature painter—he may be there still, in all probability he is—and dear John commissioned him to paint his portrait. He sat for it two or three times, and the man finished it."
"Was it a good—a truthful portrait?" asked Mrs. Mildmay.
"A wonderful portrait," said the captain. "It was John Mildmay, living and breathing in a miniature, so to speak. He gave it to me on my birthday. I kept it, I wore it on my watch chain for years, until we started for our home voyage. Then he took it from me."
"Why did he do that?" asked Violet, in a faint voice.