There was a fourth and last set, among those who speculated on the deacon’s favour towards “young Gar’ner,” and these were they who fancied that the old man had opened his heart towards the young couple, and was disposed to render a deserving youth and a beloved niece happy.  This was the smallest class of all; and, what is a little remarkable, it contained only the most reckless and least virtuous of all those who dwelt on Oyster Pond.  The parson of the parish, or the Pastor as he was usually termed, belonged to the second category, that good man being firmly impressed that most, if not all of Deacon Pratt’s worldly effects would eventually go to help propagate the gospel.

Such was the state of things when the deacon returned from meeting, as related in the opening chapter.  At his niece’s suggestion of sending to the Harbour for Dr. Sage, he had demurred, not only on account of the expense, but for a still more cogent reason.  To tell the truth, he was exceedingly distrustful of any one’s being admitted to a communication with Daggett, who had revealed to him matters that he deemed to be of great importance, but who still retained the key to his most material mystery.  Nevertheless, decency, to say nothing of the influence of what “folks would say,” the Archimedean lever of all society of puritanical origin, exhorted him to consent to his niece’s proposal.

“It is such a round-about road to get to the Harbour, Mary,” the uncle slowly objected, after a pause.

“Boats often go there, and return in a few hours.”

“Yes, yes—­boats; but I’m not certain it is lawful to work boats of a Sabbath, child.”

“I believe, sir, it was deemed lawful to do good on the Lord’s day.”

“Yes, if a body was certain it would do any good.  To be sure, Sage is a capital doctor—­as good as any going in these parts—­but, half the time, money paid for doctor’s stuff is thrown away.”

“Still, I think it our duty to try to serve a fellow-creature that is in distress; and Daggett, I fear, will not go through the week, if indeed he go through the night.”

“I should be sorry to have him die!” exclaimed the deacon, looking really distressed at this intelligence.  “Right sorry should I be, to have him die—­just yet.”

The last two words were uttered unconsciously, and in a way to cause the niece to regret that they had been uttered at all.  But they had come, notwithstanding, and the deacon saw that he had been too frank.  The fault could not now be remedied, and he was fain to allow his words to produce their own effect.

“Die he will, I fear, uncle,” returned Mary, after a short pause; “and sorry should I be to have it so without our feeling the consolation of knowing we had done all in our power to save him, or to serve him.”

“It is so far to the Harbour, that no good might come of a messenger; and the money paid him would be thrown away, too.”