He was warm with temper, and wiped his face. His daughter had for years been a mortification to him in a quiet way. She would snub him in company, she would decline to walk with him. She was for ever expressing detestation of the place, knowing that her father, in stern reality, could not afford a move. In the depths of his soul, the old gentleman felt a little sick of these yearly experiences of his, and was perfectly willing to marry her to any one whom he should think fit to be her husband. Jackman was not that man. What was there in that man that made the austere, keen-eyed commander witness a character in his beauty invisible to the girl? Conway had mixed with men, and knew human nature. Of one dark side of man's character or spirit he could claim a particular knowledge. These thoughts ran in his head whilst he waited. Suddenly he heard Mrs. Dove, who was a very slow woman, come tumbling downstairs, and in a moment she had fallen against Conway. 'What now?' said the commander, sternly thrusting her back. 'As I live to say it, sir,' cried the poor old lady, in broken tones of purest agitation and fright, 'Miss Ada didn't sleep under your roof last night!' The enraged commander studied the old working face with a gaze horrible with menace, then thrusting past her he went upstairs and entered his daughter's room. The bed had been untouched. Certainly she had said 'Good-night' to him on the landing. She had left when the house was in darkness, suppose an hour after saying 'Good-night.' With whom had she eloped? Most undoubtedly with that scoundrel, Captain Jackman. The commander stood in the middle of his daughter's room, looking round him. His strong breast hove a sob once, and he muttered to himself, 'What shall I do?' The runaway had ten hours' advantage of any pursuit; but whither, to what place should she be pursued? Had she left no note, no communication? But then, although she had not slept in her bed, _had_ she eloped? The commander went downstairs to eat his breakfast. Mrs. Dove stood in the room, white with anxiety and agitation. 'Oh, commander, is she gone, do you think? Is she gone off, do you imagine, with the sea captain?' And she wrung her hands, and her face worked in wrinkles. 'With whom else?' sternly replied the commander, seating himself before his favourite fried sole, and beginning a breakfast that scarcely promised its usual heartiness. 'What can be done, sir, to save her?' 'Don't you know, ma'm,' answered the commander, 'it has been said, that the virtue that needs a sentinel is not worth guarding? What would _you_ do to save her? She's ahead of us by ten or eleven hours. The heart of ice had no damned right to leave me without a single farewell or word of her intention.' 'I can't believe that, sir. I _can't_ believe she'd go off without leaving a note. I'll make another search.'