“A letter with a post-mark—­’Beaufort, N.C.’—­Who in natur’ can this letter be from?—­What a postage, too, to charge on a letter!  Fifty cents!”

“That is a proof, sir, that Beaufort must be a long way off.  Besides, the letter is double.  I think the hand-writing is Roswell’s.”

Had the niece fired a six-pounder under her uncle’s ears, he would scarcely have been more startled.  He even turned pale, and instead of breaking the wafer as he had been about to do, he actually shrunk from performing the act, like one afraid to proceed.

“What can this mean?” said the deacon, taking a moment to recover his voice.  “Gar’ner’s hand-writing!  So it is, I declare.  If that imprudent young man has lost my schooner, I’ll never forgive him in this world, whatever a body may be forced to do in the next!”

“It is not necessary to believe anything as bad as that, uncle.  Letters are often written at sea, and sent in by vessels that are met.  I dare say Roswell has done just this.”

“Not he—­not he—­the careless fellow!  He has lost that schooner, and all my property is in the hands of wrackers, who are worse than so many rats in a larder.  ‘Beaufort, N.C.’  Yes, that must be one of the Bahamas, and N.C. stands for New Providence—­Ah’s me!  Ah’s me!”

“But N.C. does not stand for New Providence—­it would be N.P. in that case, uncle.”

“N.C. or N.P., they sound so dreadfully alike, that I don’t know what to think!  Take the letter and open it.  Oh! how big it is—­there must be a protest, or some other costly thing inclosed.”

Mary did take the letter, and she opened it, though with trembling hands.  The inclosure soon appeared, and the first glance of her eye told her it was a letter addressed to herself.

“What is it, Mary?—­What is it, my child?  Do not be afraid to tell me,” said the deacon, in a low faltering voice.  “I hope I know how to meet misfortunes with Christian fortitude.  Has it one of them awful-looking seals that Notary Publics use when they want money?”

Mary blushed rosy-red, and she appeared very charming at that moment, though as resolute as ever to give her hand only to a youth whose ’God should be her God.’

“It is a letter to me, sir—­nothing else, I do assure you, uncle.  Roswell often writes to me, as you know; he has sent one of his letters inclosed in this to you.”

“Yes, yes—­I’m glad it’s no worse.  Well, where was his letter written?  Does he mention the latitude and longitude?  It will be some comfort to learn that he was well to the southward and eastward.”

Mary’s colour disappeared, and a paleness came over her face, as she ran through the few first lines of the letter.  Then she summoned all her resolution, and succeeded in telling her uncle the facts.

“A misfortune has befallen poor Roswell,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion, “though it does not seem to be half as bad as it might have been.  The letter is written at Beaufort, in North Carolina, where the schooner has put in to get new masts, having lost those with which she sailed in a gale of wind off Cape Hatteras.”