“Harkee, Mary—­just look out into the entry and see if the kitchen door is shut.  And now come nearer to me, child, so that there may be no need of bawling what I’ve got to say all over Oyster Pond.  There, sit down, my dear, and don’t look so eager, as if you wanted to eat me, or my mind may misgive me, and then I couldn’t tell you, a’ter all.  Perhaps it would be best, if I was to keep my own secret.”

“Not if it has anything to do with Roswell, dear uncle; not if it has anything to do with him!  You have often advised me to marry him, and I ought to know all about the man you wish me to marry.”

“Yes, Gar’ner will make a right good husband for any young woman, and I do advise you to have him.  You are my brother’s da’ghter, Mary, and I give you this advice, which I should give you all the same, had you been my own child, instead of his’n.”

“Yes, sir, I know that.—­But what about Roswell, and his having to stop, on his way home?”

“Why, you must know, Mary, that this v’y’ge came altogether out of that seaman who died among us, last year.  I was kind to him, as you may remember, and helped him to many little odd comforts,”—­odd enough were they, of a verity,—­“and he was grateful.  Of all virtues, give me gratitude, say I!  It is the noblest, as it is the most oncommon of all our good qualities.  How little have I met with, in my day!  Of all the presents I have made, and gifts bestowed, and good acts done, not one in ten has ever met with any gratitude.”

Mary sighed; for well did she know how little he had given, of his abundance, to relieve the wants of his fellow-creatures.  She sighed, too, with a sort of mild impatience that the information she sought with so much eagerness, was so long and needlessly delayed.  But the deacon had made up his mind to tell her all.

“Yes, Gar’ner has got something to do, beside sealing,” he resumed of himself, when his regret at the prevalence of ingratitude among men had exhausted itself.  “Suthin’”—­for this was the way he pronounced that word—­“that is of more importance than the schooner’s hold full of ile.  Ile is ile, I know, child; but gold is gold.  What do you think of that?”

“Is Roswell, then, to stop at Rio again, in order to sell his oil, and send the receipts home in gold?”

“Better than that—­much better than that, if he gets back at all.”  Mary felt a chill at her heart.  “Yes, that is the p’int—­if he gets back at all.  If Gar’ner ever does come home, child, I shall expect to see him return with a considerable sized keg—­almost a barrel, by all accounts—­filled with gold!”

The deacon stared about him as he made this announcement, like a man who was afraid that he was telling too much.  Nevertheless, it was to his own niece, his brother’s daughter, that he had confided thus much of his great secret—­and reflection re-assured him.

“How is Roswell to get all this gold, uncle, unless he sells his cargo?” Mary asked, with obvious solicitude.