"If I find the delay has arisen through any neglect of Lee's, I shall report him for it," spoke the Rector severely. For, though he had condoned that one great mishap of Lee's, the burning of the letter, he considered it his duty to look sharply after him. "Oh but, Herbert, it cannot be; he is always punctual," cried Grace. "I'll go and ask." Mrs. Tanerton left the room, and ran down the short path to the little white gate; poor old Lee, the letterman, was approaching it from the field. Grace glanced at the church clock--three-quarters past ten. "A break-down on the line, we hear, ma'am," said he, without waiting to be questioned, as he put one letter into her hand. "Salmon has been in a fine way all the morning, wondering what was up." "Thank you," said Grace, glancing at the letter; "we wondered too. What a beautiful day it is! Your wife will lose her rheumatism now. Tell her I say so." Back ran Grace. Herbert Tanerton was standing up, impatient for the letter he had been specially expecting, his hand stretched out for it. "Your letter has not come, Herbert. Only one for me. It is from Alice." "Oh!" returned Herbert, crustily, as he sat down again to his fire and his lemonade. Grace ran her eyes quickly over the letter--rather a long one, but very legibly written. Her husband's brother, Jack Tanerton--if you have not forgotten him--had just brought home in safety from another voyage the good ship _Rose of Delhi_, of which he was commander. Alice, his wife, who generally voyaged with him, had gone immediately on landing to her mother at New Brighton, near Liverpool; Jack remaining with his ship. This time the ship had been chartered for London, and Jack was there with it. Grace folded the letter slowly, an expression of pain seated in her eyes. "Would you like to read it, Herbert?" she asked. "Not now," groaned Herbert, shifting the band of flannel on his throat. "What does she say?" "She says"--Grace hesitated a moment before proceeding--"she says she wishes Jack could leave the sea." "I dare say!" exclaimed Herbert. "Now, Grace, I'll not have that absurd notion encouraged. It was Alice's cry last time they were at home; and I told you then I would not." "I have not encouraged it, Herbert. Of course what Alice says has reason in it: one cannot help seeing that." "Jack chose the sea as his profession, and Jack must abide by it. A turncoat is never worth a rush. Jack _likes_ the sea; and Jack has been successful at it." "Oh yes: he's a first-rate sailor," conceded Grace. "It is Alice's wish, no doubt, rather than his. She says here"--opening the letter--"Oh, if Jack could but leave the sea! All my little ones coming on!--I shall not be able to go with him this next voyage. And I come home to find my little Mary and my mother both ill! If we could but leave the sea!"