feeling, she already fancied him to be much advanced on his return. But a
dialogue which took place that very day--nay, that very hour--between her
and the deacon, will best explain her views and opinions, and
expectations.

"It's very extr'or'nary, Mary," commenced the uncle, "that Gar'ner doesn't
write! If he only know'd how a man feels when his property is ten thousand
miles off, I'm sartain he would write, and not leave me with so many
misgivings in the matter."

"By whom is he to write, uncle?" answered the more considerate and
reasonable niece. "There are no post-offices in the antarctic seas, nor
any travellers to bring letters by private hands."

"But he _did_ write once; and plaguy good news was it that he sent us in
that letter!"

"He did write from Rio, for there he had the means. By my calculations,
Roswell has left his sealing ground some three or four weeks, and must now
be as many thou sand miles on his way home."

"D'ye think so, gal?--d'ye think so?" exclaimed the deacon, his eyes
fairly twinkling with pleasure. "That would be good news; and if he
doesn't stop too long by the way, we might look for him home in less than
ninety days from this moment!"

Mary smiled pensively, and a richer colour stole into her cheeks, slowly
but distinctly.

"I do not think, uncle, that Roswell Gardiner will be very likely to stop