University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

Mrs. Sigourney.

The accident to the Sea Lion of the Vineyard occurred
very near the close of the month of March, which, in the
southern hemisphere, corresponds to our month of September.
This was somewhat late for a vessel to remain in so
high a latitude, though it was not absolutely dangerous to
be found there several weeks longer. We have given a
glance at Mary Pratt and her uncle, about this time; but
it has now become expedient to carry the reader forward
for a considerable period, and take another look at our heroine
and her miserly uncle, some seven months later. In
that interval a great change had come over the deacon and
his niece; and hope had nearly deserted all those who had
friends on board the Sea Lion of Oyster Pond, as the following
explanation will show was reasonable, and to be
expected.

When Captain Gardiner sailed, it was understood that
his absence would not extend beyond a single season. All
who had friends and connections on board his schooner,
had been assured of this; and great was the anxiety, and
deep the disappointment, when the first of our own summer
months failed to bring back the adventurers. As week
succeeded week, and the vessel did not return, the concern
increased, until hope began to be lost in apprehension.
Deacon Pratt groaned in spirit over his loss, finding little
consolation in the gains secured by means of the oil sent
home, as is apt to be the case with the avaricious, when
their hearts are once set on gain. As for Mary, the load
on her heart increased in weight, as it might be, day by
day, until those smiles, which had caused her sweet countenance
to be radiant with innocent joy, entirely disappeared,
and she was seen to smile no more. Still, complaints never

passed her lips. She prayed much, and found all her relief
in such pursuits as comported with her feelings, but she
seldom spoke of her grief; never, except at weak moments,
when her querulous kinsman introduced the subject, in his
frequent lamentations over his losses.

The month of November is apt to be stormy on the Atlantic
coasts of the republic. It is true that the heaviest
gales do not then occur, but the weather is generally stern
and wintry, and the winds are apt to be high and boisterous.
At a place like Oyster Pond, the gales from the
ocean are felt with almost as much power as on board a
vessel at sea; and Mary became keenly sensible of the
change from the bland breezes of summer to the sterner
blasts of autumn. As for the deacon, his health was actually
giving way before anxiety, until the result was getting
to be a matter of doubt. Premature old age appeared to
have settled on him, and his niece had privately consulted
Dr. Sage on his case. The excellent girl was grieved to
find that the mind of her uncle grew more worldly, his desires
for wealth more grasping, as he was losing his hold
on life, and was approaching nearer to that hour when time
is succeeded by eternity. All this while, however, Deacon
Pratt “kept about,” as he expressed it himself, and struggled
to look after his interests, as had been his practice
through life. He collected his debts, foreclosed his mortgages
when necessary, drove tight bargains for his wood
and other saleable articles, and neglected nothing that he
thought would tend to increase his gains. Still, his heart
was with his schooner; for he had expected much from
that adventure, and the disappointment was in proportion
to the former hopes.

One day, near the close of November, the deacon and his
niece were alone together in the “keeping-room,”—as it
was, if it be not still, the custom among persons of New
England origin to call the ordinary sitting-apartment,—he
bolstered up in an easy-chair, on account of increasing infirmities,
and she plying the needle in her customary way.
The chairs of both were so placed that it was easy for either
to look out upon that bay, now of a wintry aspect, where
Roswell had last anchored, previously to sailing.

“What a pleasant sight it would be, uncle,” Mary, almost

unconsciously to herself, remarked, as, with tearful
eyes, she sat gazing intently on the water, “could we only
awake and find the Sea Lion at anchor, under the point of
Gardiner's Island! I often fancy that such may be—nay,
must be the case yet; but it never comes to pass! I would
not tell you yesterday, for you did not seem to be as well
as common, but I have got an answer, by Baiting Joe, to
my letter sent across to the Vineyard.”

The deacon started, and half-turned his body towards
his niece, on whose face his own sunken eyes were now
fastened with almost ferocious interest. It was the love of
Mammon, stirring within him the lingering remains of covetousness.
He thought of his property, while Mary thought
of those whose lives had been endangered, if not lost, by
the unhappy adventure. The latter understood the look,
however, so far as to answer its inquiry, in her usual gentle,
feminine voice.

“I am sorry to say, sir, that no news has been heard
from Captain Daggett, or any of his people,” was the sad
reply to this silent interrogatory. “No one on the island
has heard a word from the Vineyard vessel since the day
before she sailed from Rio. There is the same uneasiness
felt among Captain Daggett's friends, as we feel for poor
Roswell. They think, however, that the two vessels have
kept together, and believe that the same fate has befallen
both.”

“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed the deacon, as sharply as
wasting lungs would allow—“Heaven forbid! If Gar'ner
has let that Daggett keep in his company an hour longer
than was necessary, he has deserved to meet with shipwreck,
though the loss always falls heaviest on the owners.”

“Surely, uncle, it is more cheering to think that the two
schooners are together in those dangerous seas, than to
imagine one, alone, left to meet the risks, without a companion!”

“You talk idly, gal—as women always talk. If you
know'd all, you wouldn't think of such a thing.”

“So you have said often, uncle, and I fear there is some
mystery preying all this time on your spirits. Why not
relieve your mind, by telling your troubles to me? I am
your child in affection, if not by birth.”

“You're a good gal, Mary,” answered the deacon, a
good deal softened by the plaintive tones of one of the gentlest
voices that ever fell on human ear, “an excellent creatur'
at the bottom—but of course you know nothing of the
sealing business, and next to nothing about taking care of
property.”

“I hope you do not think me wasteful, sir? That is a
character I should not like to possess.”

“No, not wasteful; on the contrary, curful (so the deacon
pronounced the word) and considerate enough, as to
keeping, but awfully indifferent as to getting. Had I been
as indifferent as you are yourself, your futur' days would
not be so comfortable and happy as they are now likely to
be, a'ter my departure—if depart I must.”

“My future life happy and comfortable!” thought Mary;
then she struggled to be satisfied with her lot, and contented
with the decrees of Providence. “It is but a few hours
that we live in this state of trials, compared to the endless
existence that is to succeed it.”

“I wish I knew all about this voyage of Roswell's,” she
added, aloud; for she was perfectly certain that there was
something to be told that, as yet, the deacon had concealed
from her. “It might relieve your mind, and lighten your
spirits of a burthen, to make me a confidant.”

The deacon mused in silence for more than five minutes.
Seldom had his thoughts gone over so wide a reach of interests
and events in so short a space of time; but the conclusion
was clear and decided.

“You ought to know all, Mary, and you shall know all,”
he answered, in the manner of a man who had made up his
mind beyond appeal. “Gar'ner has gone a'ter seal to some
islands that the Daggett who died here, about a year and
a half ago, told me of; islands of which nobody know'd
anything, according to his account, but himself. His shipmates,
that saw the place when he saw it, were all dead,
afore he let me into the secret.”

“I have long suspected something of the sort, sir, and
have also supposed that the people on Martha's Vineyard
had got some news of this place, by the manner in which
Captain Daggett has acted.”

“Isn't it wonderful, gal? Islands, they tell me, where

a schooner can fill up with ile and skins, in the shortest
season in which the sun ever shone upon an antarctic summer!
Wonderful! wonderful!”

“Very extraordinary, perhaps; but we should remember,
uncle, at how much risk the young men of the country go
on these distant voyages, and how dearly their profits are
sometimes bought.”

“Bought! If the schooner would only come back, I
should think nothing of all that. It's the cost of the vessel
and outfit, Mary, that weighs so much on my spirits. Well,
Gar'ner's first business is with them islands, which are at
an awful distance for one to trust his property; but, `nothing
ventured, nothing got,' they say. By my calculations,
the schooner has had to go a good five hundred miles among
the ice, to get to the spot; not such ice as a body falls in
with, in going and coming between England and Ameriky,
as we read of in the papers, but ice that covers the sea as
we sometimes see it piled up in Gar'ner's Bay, only a hundred
times higher, and deeper, and broader, and colder!
It's desperate cold ice, the sealers all tell me, that of the
antarctic seas. Some on 'em think it's colder down south
than it is the other way, up towards Greenland and Iceland
itself. It's extr'or'nary, Mary, that the weather should
grow cold as a body journeys south; but so it is, by all
accounts. I never could understand it, and it isn't so in
Ameriky, I'm sartain. I suppose it must come of their
turning the months round, and having their winter in the
midst of the dog-days. I never could understand it, though
Gar'ner has tried, more than once, to reason me into it. I
believe, but I don't understand.”

“It is all told in my geography here,” answered Mary,
mechanically taking down the book, for her thoughts were
far away in those icy seas that her uncle had been so graphically
describing. “I dare say we can find it all explained
in the elementary parts of this book.”

“They do make their geographies useful, now-a-days,”
said the deacon, with rather more animation than he had
shown before, that morning. “They've got 'em to be,
now, almost as useful as almanacs. Read what it says
about the seasons, child.”

“It says, sir, that the changes in the seasons are owing

to `the inclination of the earth's axis to the plane of its
orbit.' I do not exactly understand what that means, uncle.”

“No,—it's not as clear as it might be.—The declination—”

“Inclination, sir, is what is printed here.”

“Ay, inclination. I do not see why any one should have
much inclination for winter, but so it must be, I suppose.
The `'arth's orbit has an inclination towards changes,' you
say.”

“The changes in the seasons, sir, are owing to `the inclination
of the earth's axis to the plane of its orbit.' It
does not say that the orbit has an inclination in any particular
way.”

Thus was it with Mary Pratt, and thus was it with her
uncle, the deacon. One of the plainest problems in natural
philosophy was Hebrew to both, simply because the capacity
that Providence had so freely bestowed on each had
never been turned to the consideration of such useful studies.
But, while the mind of Mary Pratt was thus obscured
on this simple, and, to such as choose to give it an hour of
reflection, perfectly intelligible proposition, it was radiant
as the day on another mystery, and one that has confounded
thousands of the learned, as well as of the unlearned. To
her intellect, nothing was clearer, no moral truth more
vivid, no physical fact more certain, than the incarnation
of the Son of God. She had the “evidence of things not
seen,” in the fulness of Divine grace; and was profound
on this, the greatest concern of human life, while unable
even to comprehend how the “inclination of the earth's
axis to the plane of its orbit” could be the cause of the
change of the seasons. And was it thus with her uncle?—
he who was a pillar of the “meeting,” whose name was
often in men's mouths as a “shining light,” and who had
got to be identified with religion in his own neighbourhood,
to a degree that caused most persons to think of Deacon
Pratt, when they should be thinking of the Saviour? We
are afraid he knew as little of one of these propositions as
of the other.

“It's very extr'or'nary,” resumed the deacon, after ruminating
on the matter for a few moments, “but I suppose
it is so. Wasn't it for this `inclination' to cold weather,

our vessels might go and seal under as pleasant skies as we
have here in June. But, Mary, I suppose that wasn't to
be, or it would be.”

“There would have been no seals, most likely, uncle, if
there was no ice. They tell me that such creatures love
the cold and the ice, and the frozen oceans. Too much
warm weather would not suit them.”

“But, Mary, it might suit other folks! Gar'ner's whole
ar'nd isn't among the ice, or a'ter them seals.”

“I do not know that I understand you, sir. Surely
Roswell has gone on a sealing voyage.”

“Sartain; there's no mistake about that. But there
may be many stopping-places in so long a road.”

“Do you mean, sir, that he is to use any of these stopping-places,
as you call them?” asked Mary, eagerly, half-breathless
with her anxiety to hear all. “You said something
about the West Indies once.”

“Harkee, Mary—just look out into the entry and see if
the kitchen door is shut. And now come nearer to me,
child, so that there may be no need of bawling what I've
got to say all over Oyster Pond. There, sit down, my dear,
and don't look so eager, as if you wanted to eat me, or my
mind may misgive me, and then I couldn't tell you, a'ter
all. Perhaps it would be best, if I was to keep my own
secret.”

“Not if it has anything to do with Roswell, dear uncle;
not if it has anything to do with him! You have often
advised me to marry him, and I ought to know all about
the man you wish me to marry.”

“Yes, Gar'ner will make a right good husband for any
young woman, and I do advise you to have him. You are
my brother's da'ghter, Mary, and I give you this advice,
which I should give you all the same, had you been my
own child, instead of his'n.”

“Yes, sir, I know that.—But what about Roswell, and
his having to stop, on his way home?”

“Why, you must know, Mary, that this v'y'ge came altogether
out of that seaman who died among us, last year.
I was kind to him, as you may remember, and helped him
to many little odd comforts,”—odd enough were they, of a
verity,—“and he was grateful. Of all virtues, give me

gratitude, say I! It is the noblest, as it is the most oncommon
of all our good qualities. How little have I met with,
in my day! Of all the presents I have made, and gifts be
stowed, and good acts done, not one in ten has ever met
with any gratitude.”

Mary sighed; for well did she know how little he had
given, of his abundance, to relieve the wants of his fellow-creatures.
She sighed, too, with a sort of mild impatience
that the information she sought with so much eagerness,
was so long and needlessly delayed. But the deacon had
made up his mind to tell her all.

“Yes, Gar'ner has got something to do, beside sealing,”
he resumed of himself, when his regret at the prevalence
of ingratitude among men had exhausted itself. “Suthin”'
—for this was the way he pronounced that word—“that is
of more importance than the schooner's hold full of ile. Ile
is ile, I know, child; but gold is gold. What do you think
of that?”

“Is Roswell, then, to stop at Rio again, in order to sell
his oil, and send the receipts home in gold?”

“Better than that — much better than that, if he gets
back at all.” Mary felt a chill at her heart. “Yes, that is
the p'int — if he gets back at all. If Gar'ner ever does
come home, child, I shall expect to see him return with a
considerable sized keg—almost a barrel, by all accounts—
filled with gold!”

The deacon stared about him as he made this announcement,
like a man who was afraid that he was telling too
much. Nevertheless, it was to his own niece, his brother's
daughter, that he had confided thus much of his great secret—and
reflection re-assured him.

“How is Roswell to get all this gold, uncle, unless he
sells his cargo?” Mary asked, with obvious solicitude.

“That's another p'int. I'll tell you all about it, gal,
and you'll see the importance of keeping the secret. This
Daggett — not the one who is out in another schooner, another
Sea Lion, as it might be, but his uncle, who died
down here at the Widow White's—well, that Daggett told
more than the latitude and longitude of the sealing islands
—he told me of a buried treasure!”

“Buried treasure!—Buried by whom, and consisting of
what, uncle?”

“Buried by seamen who make free with the goods of
others on the high seas, ag'in the time when they might
come back and dig it up, and carry it away to be used.
Consisting of what, indeed! Consisting principally, accordin'
to Daggett's account, of heavy doubloons; though
there was a lot of old English guineas among 'em. Yes, I
remember that he spoke of them guineas—three thousand
and odd, and nearly as many doubloons!”

“Was Daggett, then, a pirate, sir?—for they who make
free with the goods of others on the high seas are neither
more nor less than pirates.”

“No; not he, himself. He got this secret from one who
was a pirate, however, and who was a prisoner in a gaol
where he was himself confined for smuggling. Yes; that
man told him all about the buried treasure, in return for
some acts of kindness shown him by Daggett. It's well
to be kind sometimes, Mary.”

“It is well to be kind always, sir; even when it is misunderstood,
and the kindness is abused. What was the
redemption but kindness and love, and god-like compassion
on those who neither understood it nor felt it? But money
collected and buried by pirates can never become yours,
uncle; nor can it ever become the property of Roswell
Gardiner.”

“Whose is it, then, gal?” demanded the deacon, sharply.
“Gar'ner had some such silly notion in his head when I
first told him of this treasure; but I soon brought him to
hear reason.”

“I think Roswell must always have seen that a treasure
obtained by robbery can never justly belong to any but its
rightful owner.”

“And who is this rightful owner, pray? or owners, I
might say; for the gold was picked up, here and there, out
of all question, from many hands. Now, supposing Gar'ner
gets this treasure, as I still hope he may, though he is an
awful time about it — but suppose he gets it, how is he to
find the rightful owners? There it is, a bag of doubloons,
say—all looking just alike, with the head of a king, a Don
Somebody, and the date, and the Latin and Greek — now

who can say that `this is my doubloon; I lost it at such a
time—it was taken from me by such a pirate, in such sea;
and I was whipped till I told the thieves where I had hid
the gold?' No, no, Mary; depend on't, no action of 'plevy
would lie ag'in a single one of all them pieces. They are
lost, one and all, to their former owners, and will belong
to the man that succeeds in getting hold on 'em ag'in; who
will become a rightful owner in his turn. All property
comes from law; and if the law won't 'plevy money got in
this way, nobody can maintain a claim to it.”

“I should be very, very sorry, my dear uncle, to have
Roswell enrich himself in this way.”

“You talk like a silly young woman, and one that doesn't
know her own rights. We had no hand in robbing the folks
of their gold. They lost it years ago, and may be dead—
probably are, or they would make some stir about it — or
have forgotten it, and couldn't for their lives tell a single
one of the coins they once had in their possession; and
don't know whether what they lost was thrown into the
sea, or buried in the sand on a key — Mary, child; you
must never mention anything I tell you on this subject!”

“You need fear nothing, sir, from me. But I do most
earnestly hope Roswell will have nothing to do with any
such ill-gotten wealth. He is too noble-hearted and generous
to get rich in this way.”

“Well, well, say no more about it, child; you're romantic
and notional. Just pour out my drops; for all this talking
makes me breathe thick. I'm not what I was, Mary, and
cannot last long; but was it the last breath I drew, I would
stand to it, that treasure desarted and found in this way
belongs to the last holder. I go by the law, however; let
Gar'ner only find it — well, well, I'll say no more about it
now; for it distresses you, and that I don't like to see.
Go and hunt up the Spectator, child, and look for the
whaling news — perhaps there may be suthin' about the
sealers too.”

Mary did not require to be told twice to do as her uncle
requested. The paper was soon found, and the column
that contained the marine intelligence consulted. The
niece read a long account of whalers spoken, with so many
hundred or so many thousand barrels of oil on board, but

could discover no allusion to any sealer. At length she
turned her eyes into the body of the journal, which being
semi-weekly, or tri-weekly, was crowded with matter, and
started at seeing a paragraph to the following effect:—

“By the arrival of the Twin Sisters at Stonington, we
learn that the ice has been found farther north in the
southern hemisphere this season, than it has been known
to be for many years. The sealers have had a great deal
of difficulty in making their way through it; and even
vessels bound round the Cape of Good Hope have been
much embarrassed by its presence.”

“That's it!—Yes, Mary, that's just it!” exclaimed the
deacon. “It's that awful ice. If 'twasn't for the ice,
sealin' would be as pleasant a calling as preachin' the gospel!
It is possible that this ice has turned Gar'ner back,
when he has been on his way home, and that he has been
waiting for a better time to come north. There's one good
p'int in this news — they tell me that when the ice is seen
drifting about in low latitudes, it's a sign there's less of it
in the higher.”

“The Cape of Good Hope is certainly, in one sense, in
a low latitude, uncle; if I remember right, it is not as far
south as we are north; and, as you say, it is a good sign
if the ice has come anywhere near it.”

“I don't say it has, child; I don't say it has. But it may
have come to the northward of Cape Horn, and that will
be a great matter; for all the ice that is drifting about
there comes from the polar seas, and is so much taken out
of Gar'ner's track.”

“Still he must come through it to get home,” returned
Mary, in her sweet, melancholy tones. “Ah! why cannot
men be content with the blessings that Providence places
within our immediate reach, that they must make distant
voyages to accumulate others!”

“You like your tea, I fancy, Mary Pratt—and the sugar
in it, and your silks and ribbons that I've seen you wear;
how are you to get such matters if there's to be no going
on v'y'ges? Tea and sugar, and silks and satins don't
grow along with the clams on `Yster Pond”'—for so the
deacon uniformly pronounced the word `oyster.'

Mary acknowledged the truth of what was said, but

changed the subject. The journal contained no more that
related to sealing or sealers, and it was soon laid aside.

“It may be that Gar'ner is digging for the buried treasure
all this time,” the deacon at length resumed. “That
may be the reason he is so late. If so, he has nothing to
dread from ice.”

“I understand you, sir, that this money is supposed to
be buried on a key—in the West Indies, of course.”

“Don't speak so loud, Mary—there's no need of letting
all 'Yster Pond know where the treasure is. It may be in
the West Ingees, or it may not; there's keys all over the
'arth, I take it.”

“Do you not think, uncle, that Roswell would write, if
detained long among those keys?”

“You wouldn't hear to post-offices in the antarctic
ocean, and now you want to put them on the sand-keys of
the West Ingees! Woman's always a sailin' ag'in wind
and tide.”

“I do not think so, sir, in this case, at least. There
must be many vessels passing among the keys of the West
Indies, and nothing seems to me to be easier than to send
letters by them. I am quite sure Roswell would write, if
in a part of the world where he thought what he wrote
would reach us.”

“Not he—not he—Gar'ner's not the man I take him for,
if he let any one know what he is about in them keys, until
he had done up all his business there. No, no, Mary. We
shall never hear from him in that quarter of the world. It
may be that Gar'ner is a digging about, and has difficulty
in finding the place; for Daggett's account had some weak
spots in it.”

Mary made no reply, though she thought it very little
likely that Roswell would pass months in the West Indies
employed in such a pursuit, without finding the means of
letting her know where he was, and what he was about.
The intercourse between these young people was somewhat
peculiar, and ever had been. In listening to the suit of
Roswell, Mary had yielded to her heart; in hesitating about
accepting him, she deferred to her principles. Usually, a
mother—not a managing, match-making, interested parent,
but a prudent, feminine, well-principled mother—is of the

last importance to the character and well-being of a young
woman. It sometimes happens, however, that a female
who has no parent of her own sex, and who is early made
to be dependent on herself, if the bias of her mind is good,
becomes as careful and prudent of herself and her conduct
as the advice and solicitude of the most tender mother
could make her. Such had been the case with Mary Pratt.
Perfectly conscious of her own deserted situation, high
principled, and early awake to the defects in her uncle's
character, she had laid down severe rules for the government
of her own conduct; and from these rules she never
departed. Thus it was that she permitted Roswell to write,
though she never answered his letters. She permitted him
to write, because she had promised not to shut her ears to
his suit, so long as he practised towards her his native and
manly candour; concealing none of his opinions, and confessing
his deficiency on the one great point that formed
the only obstacle to their union.

A young woman who has no mother, if she escape the
ills attendant on the privation while her character is forming,
is very apt to acquire qualities that are of great use in
her future life. She learns to rely on herself, gets accustomed
to think and act like an accountable being, and is
far more likely to become a reasoning and useful head of a
family, than if brought up in dependence, and under the
control of even the best maternal government. In a word,
the bias of the mind is sooner obtained in such circumstances
than when others do so much of the thinking;
whether that bias be in a right or in a wrong direction.
But Mary Pratt had early taken the true direction in all
that relates to opinion and character, and had never been
wanting to herself in any of the distinctive and discreet
deportment of her sex.

Our heroine hardly knew whether or not to seek for
consolation in her uncle's suggestion of Roswell's being
detained among the keys, in order to look for the hidden
treasure. The more she reflected on this subject, the more
did it embarrass her. Few persons who knew of the existence
of such a deposit would hesitate about taking possession
of it; and, once reclaimed, in what way were the best
intentions to be satisfied with the disposition of the gold?

To find the owners would probably be impossible; and a
question in casuistry remained. Mary pondered much on
this subject, and came to the conclusion that, were she the
person to whom such a treasure were committed, she would
set aside a certain period for advertising; and failing to
discover those who had the best claim to the money, that
she would appropriate every dollar to a charity.

Alas! Little did Mary understand the world. The fact
that money was thus advertised would probably have brought
forward a multitude of dishonest pretenders to having been
robbed by pirates; and scarce a doubloon would have found
its way into the pocket of its right owner, even had she
yielded all to the statements of such claimants.

All this, however, did not bring back the missing Roswell.
Another winter was fast approaching, with its chilling
storms and gales, to awaken apprehensions by keeping
the turbulence of the ocean, as it might be, constantly before
the senses. Not a week now passed that the deacon
did not get a letter from some wife, or parent, or sister, or
perhaps from one who hesitated to avow her relations to
the absent mariner; all inquiring after the fate of those
who had sailed in the Sea Lion of Oyster Pond, under the
orders of Captain Roswell Gardiner.

Even those of the Vineyard sent across questions, and
betrayed anxiety and dread, in the very manner of putting
their interrogatories. Each day did the deacon's apprehensions
increase, until it was obvious to all around him
that this cause, united to others that were more purely
physical, perhaps, was seriously undermining his health,
and menacing his existence. It is a sad commentary on
the greediness for gain, manifested by this person, that ere
the adventure he had undertaken on the strength of Daggett's
reluctant communications was brought to any apparent
result, he himself was nearly in the condition of that
diseased seaman, with as little prospect of being benefited
by his secrets as was the man himself who first communicated
their existence. Mary saw all this clearly, and
mourned almost as much over the blindness and worldliness
of her uncle as she did over the now nearly assured
fate of him whom she had so profoundly loved in her heart's
core.

Day by day did time roll on, without bringing any tidings
of either of the Sea Lions. The deacon grew weak fast,
until he seldom left his room, and still more rarely the
house. It was now that he was induced to make his will,
and this by an agency so singular as to deserve being mentioned.
The Rev. Mr. Whittle broached the subject one
day, not with any interested motive of course, but simply
because the “meeting-house” wanted some material repairs,
and there was a debt on the congregation that it
might be a pleasure to one who had long stood in the relation
to it that Deacon Pratt filled, to pay off, when he no
longer had any occasion for the money for himself. It is
probable the deacon at length felt the justice of this remark;
for the sent to Riverhead for a lawyer, and made a
will that would have stood even the petulant and envious
justice of the present day; a justice that inclines to divide
a man's estate infinitesimally, lest some heir become a
little richer than his neighbours. After all, no small portion
of that which struts about under the aspects of right,
and liberty, and benevolence, is in truth derived from some
of the most sneaking propensities of human nature!