“Here it is, uncle,” cried the nearly breathless girl, reentering the ‘keeping-room,’ and unconsciously holding the letter still pressed to her heart,—­“A letter—­a letter from Roswell, in his own precious hand.”

A flood of tears gave some relief to feelings that had so long been pent, and eased a heart that had been compressed nearly to breaking.  At any other time, and at this unequivocal evidence of the hold the young man had on the affections of his niece, Deacon Pratt would have remonstrated with her on the folly of refusing to become “Roswell Gar’ner’s” wife; but the sight of the letter drove all other thoughts from his head, concentrating his whole being in the fate of the schooner.

“Look, and see if it has the Antarctic post-mark on it, Mary,” said the deacon, in a tremulous voice.

This request was not made so much in ignorance as in trepidation.  The deacon very well knew that the islands the Sea Lion was to visit were uninhabited, and were destitute of post-offices; but his ideas were confused, and apprehension rendered him silly.

“Uncle!” exclaimed the niece, wiping the tears from a face that was now rosy with blushes at her own weakness, “surely, Roswell can find no post-office where he is!”

“But the letter must have some post-mark, child.  Baiting Joe has not brought it himself into the country.”

“It is post-marked ‘New York,’ sir, and nothing else—­Yes, here is ‘Forwarded by Cane, Spriggs, and Button, Rio de Janeiro.’  It must have been put into a post-office there.”

“Rio!—­Here is more salvage, gal—­more salvage coming to afflict me!”

“But you had no salvage to pay, uncle, on the other occasion; perhaps there will be none to pay on this.  Had I not better open the letter at once, and see what has happened?”

“Yes, open it, child,” answered the deacon, in a voice so feeble as to be scarcely audible—­“open it at once, as you say, and let me know my fate.  Anything is better than this torment!”

Mary did not wait for a second permission, but instantly broke the seal.  It might have been the result of education, or there may be such a thing as female instinct in these matters; but, certain it is, that the girl turned towards the window, as she tore the paper asunder, and slipped the letter that bore her own name into a fold of her dress, so dexterously, that one far more keen-sighted than her uncle would not have detected the act.  No sooner was her own letter thus secured, than the niece offered the principal epistle to her uncle.

“Read it yourself, Mary,” said the last, in his querulous tones.  “My eyes are so dim, that I could not see to read it.”

“Rio di Janeiro, Province of Brazil, South America, Nov. 14th, 1819,” commenced the niece.

“Rio di Janeiro!” interrupted the uncle.  “Why that is round Cape Horn, isn’t it, Mary?”

“Certainly not, sir.  Brazil is on the east side of the Andes, and Rio di Janeiro is its capital.  The king of Portugal lives there now and has lived there as long as I can remember.”