“Yes; ’t would have been more nat’ral for a woman, a body must own,” returned the Widow Stone, a little drily.  “Had the deacon been a woman, I dare say, Betsy, you would not have thought so much of his visits.”

“I should think nothing of them at all,” rejoined the sister widow, innocently enough.  “But it is dreadful odd in a man to be visiting about among the sick so much—­and he a deacon of the meeting!”

“Yes, it is not as common as it might be, particularly among deacons.  But, come in, Betsy, and I will show you the text from which minister preached this morning.  It’s well worth attending to, for it touches on our forlorn state.”  Hereupon, the two relicts entered an inner room, where we shall leave them to discuss the merits of the sermon, interrupted by many protestations on the part of the Widow White, concerning the “dreadful” character of Deacon Pratt’s many visits to her cottage, “Sabba’ days” as well as week days.

In the meanwhile, the interview between the deacon, himself, and the sick mariner, had its course.  After the first salutations, and the usual inquiries, the visiter, with some parade of manner, alluded to the fact that he had sent for a physician for the other’s benefit.

“I did it of my own head,” added the deacon; “or, I might better say, of my own heart.  It was unpleasant to me to witness your sufferings, without doing something to alleviate them.  To alleviate sorrow, and pain, and the throes of conscience, is one of the most pleasant of all the Christian offices.  Yes, I have sent young Gar’ner across the bays, to the Harbour; and three or four hours hence we may look for him back, with Dr. Sage in his boat.”

“I only hope I shall have the means to pay for all this expense and trouble, deacon,” returned Daggett, in a sort of doubting way, that, for a moment, rendered his friend exceedingly uncomfortable.  “Go, I know I must, sooner or later; but could I only live to get to the Vineyard, twould be found that my share of the old homestead would make up for all my wants.  I may live to see the end of the other business.”

Among the other tales of Daggett, was one which said that he had never yet received his share of his father’s property; an account that was true enough, though the truth might have shown that the old man had left nothing worth dividing.  He had been a common mariner, like the son, and had left behind him a common mariner’s estate.  The deacon mused a moment, and then he took an occasion to advert to the subject that had now been uppermost in his thoughts ever since he had been in the habit of holding secret conferences with the sick man.  What that subject was, will appear in the course of the conversation that ensued.

“Have you thought of the chart, Daggett,” asked the deacon, “and given an eye to that journal?”

“Both, sir.  Your kindness to me has been so great, that I am not a man apt to forget it.”