The deacon thought himself safe in venturing this little departure from the literal truth, inasmuch as no one had been present, or he thought no one had ever been present at his many secret conferences with the deceased mariner.  Little, however, did he understand the character of the Widow White, if he flattered himself with holding any discourse under her roof, in which she was not to participate in its subject.  So far from this having been the case, the good woman had contrived to obtain, not only a listening-place, but a peeping-hole, where she both heard and saw most of that which passed between her guest and the deacon.  Had her powers of comprehension been equal to her will, or had not her mind been prepossessed with the notion that the deacon must be after herself, old Suffolk would have rung with the marvels that were thus revealed.  Not only would an unknown sealing-island been laid before the East-enders, but twenty such islands, and keys without number, each of which contained more hidden treasure than ‘Gar’ner’s Island,’ Oyster Pond, the Plumb and Fisher’s, and all the coasts of the Sound put together; enriched as each and all of these places were thought to be, by the hidden deposits of Kidd.

Nothing but an accident had prevented these rumours from being circulated.  It happened that on only one occasion Daggett was explicit and connected in his narrative.  At all other times his discourse was broken, consisting more in allusions to what had been previously said than in direct and clear revelations.  The widow, most unfortunately for her means of information, was with “neighbour Stone” when the connected narrative was given, and all that she knew was disjointed, obscure, and a little contradictory.  Still, it was sufficient to set her thinking intensely and sufficient to produce a material influence on the future fortunes of the Sea Lion, as will appear in the sequel.

“It is always a misfortune for a human being to take his departure away from home and friends,” observed the Rev. Mr. Whittle.  “Here was an immortal soul left to take its last great flight, unsupported, I dare say, except by the prayers of a few pious neighbours.  I regret having been absent during the time he was here.  Getting home of a Friday only, I was compelled to devote Saturday to preparations for the Sabbath; and Sabbath-night, as I understand it, he departed.”

“We are all in the hands of Divine Providence,” said the deacon, with a sober mien, “and it is our duty to submit.  To my thinking, Oyster Pond catches more of its share of the poor and needy, who are landed from vessels passing east and west, and add considerably to our burthens.”

This was said of a spot as much favoured by Divine Providence, in the way of abundance, as any other in highly-favoured America.  Some eight or ten such events as the landing of a stranger had occurred within the last half-century, and this was the only instance in which either of them had cost the deacon a cent.  But, so little was he accustomed, and so little was he disposed, to give, that even a threatened danger of that sort amounted, in his eyes, nearly to a loss.