“Now, go at once, Roswell,” said Mary, in an entreating manner; “and show the same skill in managing the boat that you did the day you won the race against the Harbour oarsmen.”

“I will do all a man can, to oblige you, Mary, as well as to serve the sick.  If Dr. Sage should not be at home, am I to look for another physician, Mr. Pratt?”

“Sage must be at home—­we can employ no other.  Your old, long-established physicians understand how to consider practice, and don’t make mistakes—­by the way, Gar’ner, you needn’t mention my name in the business, at all.  Just say that a sick man, at the Widow White’s, needs his services, and that you had volunteered to take him across. That will bring him—­I know the man.”

Again Gardiner understood what the deacon meant.  He was just as desirous of not paying the physician as of not paying the messenger.  Mary understood him, too and, with a face still more sad than anxiety had previously made it, she walked into the house, leaving her uncle and lover in the porch.  After a few more injunctions from the former, in the way of prudent precaution, the latter departed, hurrying down to the water-side, in order to take to the boat.

Chapter III.

  “All that glisters is not gold,
  Often have you heard that told;
  Many a man his life hath sold,
  But my outside to behold.”

  Merchant of Venice.

No sooner was Deacon Pratt left alone, than he hastened to the humble dwelling of the Widow White.  The disease of Daggett was a general decay that was not attended with much suffering.  He was now seated in a homely armchair, and was able to converse.  He was not aware, indeed, of the real danger of his case, and still had hopes of surviving many years.  The deacon came in at the door, just as the widow had passed through it, on her way to visit another crone, who lived hard by, and with whom she was in the constant habit of consulting.  She had seen the deacon in the distance, and took that occasion to run across the road, having a sort of instinctive notion that her presence was not required when the two men conferred together.  What was the subject of their frequent private communications, the Widow White did not exactly know; but what she imagined, will in part appear in her discourse with her neighbour, the Widow Stone.

“Here’s the deacon, ag’in!” cried the Widow White, as she bolted hurriedly into her friend’s presence.  “This makes the third time he has been at my house since yesterday morning.  What can he mean?”

“Oh!  I dare say, Betsy, he means no more than to visit the sick, as he pretends is the reason of his many visits.”

“You forget it is Sabba’ day!” added the Widow White, with emphasis.

“The better day, the better deed, Betsy.”

“I know that; but it’s dreadful often for a man to visit the sick—­three times in twenty-four hours!”