th our two Sea Lions. It is true that the
Oyster-Ponders were nearly ready, and had been quite so, for a fortnight;
but a good deal remained to be done among the Vineyarders. The last set
themselves to their task with a hearty good-will, however, and with
corresponding results.

"We will leave the house standing for them that come after us," said
Roswell, when the last article belonging to his schooner was taken out of
it. "The deacon has crammed us so full of wood that I shall be tempted to
throw half of it overboard, now we have so much cargo. Let all stand,
Hazard, bunks, planks and all; for really we have no room for the
materials. Even this wood," pointing to a pile of several cords that had
been landed already to make room for skins and casks that had been brought
out in shocks, "must go to the next comer. Perhaps it may be one of
ourselves; for we sailors never know what port will next fetch us up."

"I hope it will be old Sag, sir," answered Hazard, cheerfully; "for,
though no great matter of a seaport, it is near every man's home, and may
be called a sort of door-way to go in and out of the country through."

"A side-door, at the best," answered Roswell. "With you, I trust it will
be the next haven that we enter; though I shall take the schooner at once
in behind Shelter Island, and tie her up to the deacon's wharf."

What images of the past and future did these few jocular words awaken in
the mind of our young sealer! He fancied that he saw Mary standing in the
porch of her uncle's habitation, a witness of the approach of the
schooner, looking wistfully at the still indistinct images of those who
were to be seen on her decks. Mary had often done this in her dreams;
again and again had she beheld the white sails of the Sea Lion driving
across Gardiner's Bay, and entering Peconic; and often had she thus gazed
in the weather-worn countenance of him who occupied so much of her
thoughts--so many of her prayers--picturing through the mysterious images
of sleep the object she so well loved when waking.

And where was Mary Pratt at that day and hour when Roswell was thus
issuing his last orders at Sealer's Land; and what was her occupation, and
what her thoughts? The difference in longitude between the group and
Montauk was so trifling that the hour might be almost called identical.
Literally so, it was not; but mainly so, it was. There were not the five
degrees in difference that make the twenty minutes in time. M