ore than this
we are not permitted to say on this subject; and this is quite enough to
give the navigator a pretty near notion of the position of the group. As a
degree of longitude measures less than twenty-eight statute miles at the
polar circles, this is coming within a day's run of the spot, so far as
longitude is concerned; and nearer than that we do not intend to carry the
over-anxious reader, let his curiosity be as lively as it may.

And where, then, was Mary Pratt? Safe, well, and reasonably happy, in the
house of her uncle, where she had passed most of her time since infancy.
The female friends of mariners have always fruitful sources of uneasiness
in the pursuit itself; but Mary had no other cause for concern of this
nature than what was inseparable from so long a voyage, and the sea into
which Roswell had gone. She well knew that the time was arrived when he
was expected to be on his way home; and as hope is an active and beguiling
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
on his way to us here, on Oyster Pond," was the answer she made.

"I should be sorry to think that. The best part of his v'y'ge may be made
in