MARY. Phus, you go to the post-office, and see if there are any letters. The post-man may not know that we have come in. PHUS. Yaas, mis’. (_Puts book on the wheel-house, and exit_ L.) MR. R. He went out with a fishing-fleet, didn’t he, from Gloucester? MARY. Yes; why? MR. R. Well, there have been a good many fishing-boats lost lately, down at the Banks, that went from Gloucester. What was the name of his boat? MARY. The Betsey Ludgitt, Captain Zabulon Miller. MR. R. That’s the name of one of them, I think. Here’s the shipping list. It says (_he reads_), “Several vessels strayed from the fleet, and have not been heard from since. It is feared that they are lost. Among them is the Betsey Ludgitt, Captain Zab—” MARY (_rising in alarm_). Merciful Heaven! it cannot be! I should have heard; something would have told me if such a dreadful thing had happened to William. I cannot believe it. MR. R. He _may_ be safe; but the probabilities are that he is lost. MARY. Oh! do not say that again. I cannot and will not believe it. (_Goes to the hammock, and bends over it._) MR. R. (_approaching_ MARY _in an insinuating way_). My dear—madam, if anything should happen to your husband, remember (_smiling_) that you have a warm friend in me. I will give you as good a home as there is on the river, and take your child, too. Yes! yes! I’ll take your child. MARY (_turning suddenly upon him_). Give me a home? Take my child? What do you mean? MR. R. Why, I mean that I’ll marry you! MARY. Marry me? Who gave you the right to say you’d marry me, or take my baby? William’s child! How dare you! MR. R. I don’t see as you can help yourself. You need the protection of a man. You can’t have the boat; and you certainly can’t get a living around here, with your hands tied by that young one. And you’re too pretty a woman—(_Tries to take her hand._) MARY. (_indignantly_). Sir! you’ve said enough! You may own my boat, and you may have the power to take her from me; but you cannot have the wife of Captain William Miller. I tell you, sir, that I would rather beg my way home from door to door, with my child in my arms,—yes, I would starve,—before I would be the wife of any man but my own husband. Dead or alive, it makes no difference to me. He is still my husband! MR. R. (_aside_). Those down-East women beat the world. The spunk they show—Yankee grit they call it—it’s amazing! But, Gad! it makes her look handsomer than ever. (_To her, insinuatingly_) You may change your mind; but, whether you do or not, remember that I will always be your friend. (_Smiling._) MARY. Sir! I shall _never_ change my mind; and I forbid you ever to mention this subject to me again. I want no such friendship as yours. Good-morning! (_Turns from him, and goes to the hammock._) MR. R. (_apologetically_). Well, I’m sure I—(_Aside_) Gad! I want her more than ever. (_To her_) You know I said if you _did_ get the license, we won’t take away the boat. I’m sure you ought not to complain of that!