usable occasion she could
have of so long absence. And then, thinks I, if she should either be
dead, or have quite left me, which will be of equally bad consequence
to me, what can I do with three poor helpless infants? If they were a
little more grown up, they might be helpful to me and to each other;
but at their age how shall I ever rear them without the tenderness of
a mother? And to see them pine away before my face, and not know how to
help them, will distract me.

Finding I could neither sleep nor lie still, I rose, intending to search
all the woods about, and call to her, that if any accident had prevented
sight of her she might at least hear me. But upon opening the door, and
just stepping out, how agreeably was I surprised to meet her coming in,
with something on her arm. "My dear Youwarkee," says I, "where have you
been? What has befallen you to keep you out so long? The poor children
have been at their wits' end to find you; and I, my dear, have been
inconsolable, and was now, almost distracted, coming in search of you."
Youwarkee looked very blank, to think what concern she had given me and
the children. "My dearest Peter," says she, kissing me, "pray forgive
me the only thing I have ever done to offend you, and the last cause
you shall ever have, by my good will, to complain of me; but walk within
doors, and I will give you a farther account of my absence. Don't you
remember what delight I took the other day to hear you talk of your
ship?"--"Yes," says I, "you did so; but what of that?"--"Nay, pray,"
says she, "forgive me, for I have been to see it."--"That's impossible,"
says I; and truly this was the first time I ever thought she went about
to deceive me.--"I do assure you," says she, "I have; and a wonderful
thing it is! But if you distrust me, and what I say, I have brought
proof of it; step out with me to the verge of the wood, and satisfy
yourself."--"But pray," says I, "who presented you with this upon your
arm?"--"I vow," says she, "I had forgot this: yes, this will, I believe,
confirm to you what I have said."--I turned it over and over; and
looking wistfully upon her, says I, "This waistcoat, indeed, is the very
fellow to one that lay in the captain's locker in the cabin"--"Say not
the very fellow," says she, "but rather say the very same, for I'll
assure you it is so; and had you been with me, we might have got so many
things for ourselves and the children, we should never have wanted
more, thou