The deacon started, and half-turned his body towards his niece, on whose face his own sunken eyes were now fastened with almost ferocious interest.  It was the love of Mammon, stirring within him the lingering remains of covetousness.  He thought of his property, while Mary thought of those whose lives had been endangered, if not lost, by the unhappy adventure.  The latter understood the look, however, so far as to answer its inquiry, in her usual gentle, feminine voice.

“I am sorry to say, sir, that no news has been heard from Captain Daggett, or any of his people,” was the sad reply to this silent interrogatory.  “No one on the island has heard a word from the Vineyard vessel since the day before she sailed from Rio.  There is the same uneasiness felt among Captain Daggett’s friends, as we feel for poor Roswell.  They think, however, that the two vessels have kept together, and believe that the same fate has befallen both.”

“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed the deacon, as sharply as wasting lungs would allow—­“Heaven forbid!  If Gar’ner his let that Daggett keep in his company an hour longer than was necessary, he has deserved to meet with shipwreck, though the loss always falls heaviest on the owners.”

“Surely, uncle, it is more cheering to think that the two schooners are together in those dangerous seas, than to imagine one, alone, left to meet the risks, without a companion!”

“You talk idly, gal—­as women always talk.  If you know’d all, you wouldn’t think of such a thing.”

“So you have said often, uncle, and I fear there is some mystery preying all this time on your, spirits.  Why not relieve your mind, by telling your troubles to me?  I am your child in affection, if not by birth.”

“You’re a good gal, Mary,” answered the deacon, a good deal softened by the plaintive tones of one of the gentlest voices that ever fell on human ear, “an excellent creatur’ at the bottom—­but of course you know nothing of the sealing business, and next to nothing about taking care of property.”

“I hope you do not think me wasteful, sir?  That is a character I should not like to possess.”

“No, not wasteful; on the contrary, curful (so the deacon pronounced the word) and considerate enough, as to keeping, but awfully indifferent as to getting.  Had I been as indifferent as you are yourself, your futur’ days would not be so comfortable and happy as they are now likely to be, a’ter my departure—­if depart I must.”

“My future life happy and comfortable!” thought Mary; then she struggled to be satisfied with her lot, and contented with the decrees of Providence.  “It is but a few hours that we live in this state of trials, compared to the endless existence that is to succeed it.”

“I wish I knew all about this voyage of Roswell’s,” she added, aloud; for she was perfectly certain that there was something to be told that, as yet, the deacon had concealed from her.  “It might relieve your mind, and lighten your spirits of a burthen, to make me a confidant.”