are once set on gain.  As for Mary, the load on her heart increased in weight, as it might be, day by day, until those smiles, which had caused her sweet countenance to be radiant with innocent joy, entirely disappeared, and she was seen to smile no more.  Still, complaints never passed her lips.  She prayed much, and found all her relief in such pursuits as comported with her feelings, but she seldom spoke of her grief; never, except at weak moments, when her querulous kinsman introduced the subject, in his frequent lamentations over his losses.

The month of November is apt to be stormy on the Atlantic coasts of the republic.  It is true that the heaviest gales do not then occur, but the weather is generally stern and wintry, and the winds are apt to be high and boisterous.  At a place like Oyster Pond, the gales from the ocean are felt with almost as much power as on board a vessel at sea; and Mary became keenly sensible of the change from the bland breezes of summer to the sterner blasts of autumn.  As for the deacon, his health was actually giving way before anxiety, until the result was getting to be a matter of doubt.  Premature old age appeared to have settled on him, and his niece had privately consulted Dr. Sage on his case.  The excellent girl was grieved to find that the mind of her uncle grew more worldly, his desires for wealth more grasping, as he was losing his hold on life, and was approaching nearer to that hour when time is succeeded by eternity.  All this while, however, Deacon Pratt “kept about,” as he expressed it himself, and struggled to look after his interests, as had been his practice through life.  He collected his debts, foreclosed his mortgages when necessary, drove tight bargains for his wood and other saleable articles, and neglected nothing that he thought would tend to increase his gains.  Still, his heart was with his schooner; for he had expected much from that adventure, and the disappointment was in proportion to the former hopes.

One day, near the close of November, the deacon and his niece were alone together in the “keeping-room,”—­as it was, if it be not still, the custom among persons of New England origin to call the ordinary sitting-apartment,—­he bolstered up in an easy-chair, on account of increasing infirmities, and she plying the needle in her customary way.  The chairs of both were so placed that it was easy for either to look out upon that bay, now of a wintry aspect, where Roswell had last anchored, previously to sailing.

“What a pleasant sight it would be, uncle,” Mary, almost unconsciously to herself, remarked, as, with tearful eyes, she sat gazing intently on the water, “could we only awake and find the Sea Lion at anchor, under the point of Gardiner’s Island!  I often fancy that such may be—­nay, must be the case yet; but it never comes to pass!  I would not tell you yesterday, for you did not seem to be as well as common, but I have got an answer, by Baiting Joe, to my letter sent across to the Vineyard.”