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. More 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!"