And where was Mary Pratt at that day and hour when Roswell was thus issuing his last orders at Sealer’s Land; and what was her occupation, and what her thoughts?  The difference in longitude between the group and Montauk was so trifling that the hour might be almost called identical.  Literally so, it was not; but mainly so, it was.  There were not the five degrees in difference that make the twenty minutes in time.  More than this we are not permitted to say on this subject; and this is quite enough to give the navigator a pretty near notion of the position of the group.  As a degree of longitude measures less than twenty-eight statute miles at the polar circles, this is coming within a day’s run of the spot, so far as longitude is concerned; and nearer than that we do not intend to carry the over-anxious reader, let his curiosity be as lively as it may.

And where, then, was Mary Pratt?  Safe, well, and reasonably happy, in the house of her uncle, where she had passed most of her time since infancy.  The female friends of mariners have always fruitful sources of uneasiness in the pursuit itself; but Mary had no other cause for concern of this nature than what was inseparable from so long a voyage, and the sea into which Roswell had gone.  She well knew that the time was arrived when he was expected to be on his way home; and as hope is an active and beguiling feeling, she already fancied him to be much advanced on his return.  But a dialogue which took place that very day—­nay, that very hour—­between her and the deacon, will best explain her views and opinions, and expectations.

“It’s very extr’or’nary, Mary,” commenced the uncle, “that Gar’ner doesn’t write!  If he only know’d how a man feels when his property is ten thousand miles off, I’m sartain he would write, and not leave me with so many misgivings in the matter.”

“By whom is he to write, uncle?” answered the more considerate and reasonable niece.  “There are no post-offices in the antarctic seas, nor any travellers to bring letters by private hands.”

“But he did write once; and plaguy good news was it that he sent us in that letter!”

“He did write from Rio, for there he had the means.  By my calculations, Roswell has left his sealing ground some three or four weeks, and must now be as many thou sand miles on his way home.”

“D’ye think so, gal?—­d’ye think so?” exclaimed the deacon, his eyes fairly twinkling with pleasure.  “That would be good news; and if he doesn’t stop too long by the way, we might look for him home in less than ninety days from this moment!”

Mary smiled pensively, and a richer colour stole into her cheeks, slowly but distinctly.

“I do not think, uncle, that Roswell Gardiner will be very likely to stop on his way to us here, on Oyster Pond,” was the answer she made.

“I should be sorry to think that.  The best part of his v’y’ge may be made in the West Ingees, and I hope he is not a man to overlook his instructions.”