the direction of the Sound, and the other in that of the arm of the
sea, which belongs properly to Peconic Bay, we believe. All this water,
some of which was visible over points and among islands, together with a
smiling and fertile, though narrow stretch of foreground, could not fail
of making an agreeable landscape.

It was little, however, that Deacon Pratt thought of views, or beauty of
any sort, as the mare reached the open gate of his own abode. Mary was
standing in the stoop, or porch of the house, and appeared to be anxiously
awaiting her uncle's return. The latter gave the reins to a black, one who
was no longer a slave, but who was a descendant of some of the ancient
slaves of the Pratts, and in that character consented still to dawdle
about the place, working for half price. On alighting, the uncle
approached the niece with somewhat of interest in his mariner.

"Well, Mary," said the former, "how does he get on, now?"

"Oh! my dear sir he cannot possibly live, I think, and I do most
earnestly entreat that you will let me send across to the Harbour for Dr.
Sage."

By the Harbour was meant Sag's, and the physician named was one of merited
celebrity in old Suffolk. So healthy was the country in general, and so
simple were the habits of the people, that neither lawyer nor physician
was to be found in every hamlet, as is the case to-day. Both were to be
had at Riverhead, as well as at Sag Harbour; but, if a man called out
"Squire," or "Doctor," in the highways of Suffolk, sixteen men did not
turn round to reply, as is said to be the case in other regions; one half
answering to the one appellation, and the second half to the other. The
deacon had two objections to yielding to his niece's earnest request; the
expense being one, though it was not, in this instance, the greatest;
there was another reason that he kept to himself, but which will appear as
our narrative proceeds.

A few weeks previously to the Sunday in question, a sea-going vessel,
inward bound, had brought up in Gardiner's Bay, which is a usual anchorage
for all sorts of craft. A worn-out and battered seaman had been put ashore
on Oyster Pond, by a boat from this vessel, which sailed to the westward
soon after, proceeding most probably to New York. The stranger was not
only well advanced in life, but he was obviously wasting away with
disease.

The account given of himself by this seaman was sufficiently explicit. He
was born on Martha's Vineyard