hat schooner does not
look, to me, like the Sea Lion."

"Nor to me, in some things, while in other some she does. Her upper works
seem strangely out of shape, and there's precious little on 'em. But no
other fore-taw-sail schooner ever comes in this-a-way, and I know of none
likely to do it. Ay, by Jupiter, there goes the very blue peter I helped
to make with my own hands, and it was agreed to set it, as the deacon's
signal. There's no mistake, now!"

Joe might have talked half an hour longer without any fear of
interruption, for Mary had vanished to her own room, leaving him with his
head and body still out of the window, making his strictures and
conjectures for some time longer; while the person to whom he fancied he
was speaking, was, in truth, on her knees, rendering thanks to God! An
hour later, all doubt was removed, the schooner coming in between Oyster
Pond and Shelter Island, and making the best of her way to the well-known
wharf.

"Isn't it wonderful, Mary," exclaimed the deacon, in a hollow voice, it is
true, but with an animation and force that did not appear to have any
immediate connection with death--"isn't it wonderful that Gar'ner should
come back, after all! If he has only done his duty by me, this will be the
greatest ventur' of my whole life; it will make the evening of my days
comfortable. I hope I've always been grateful for blessings, and I'm sure
I'm grateful, from the bottom of my heart, for this. Give me prosperity,
and I'm not apt to forget it. They've been asking me to make a will, but I
told 'em I was too poor to think of any such thing; and, now my schooner
has got back, I s'pose I shall get more hints of the same sort. Should
anything happen to me, Mary, you can bring out the sealed paper I gave you
to keep, and that must satisfy 'em all. You'll remember, it is addressed
to Gar'ner. There isn't much in it, and it won't be much thought of, I
fancy; but, such as it is, 'tis the last instrument I sign, unless I get
better. To think of Gar'ner's coming back, after all! It has put new life
in me, and I shall be about, ag'in, in a week, if he has only not
forgotten the key, and the hidden treasure!"

Mary Pratt's heart had not been so light for many a weary day, but it
grieved her to be a witness of this lingering longing after the things of
the world. She knew that not only her uncle's days, but that his very
hours, were numbered; and that, notwithstanding this momentary flickering
of the