“Thank you, Captain Hepburn; I believe you are a true friend to me and mine, and I owe you much, much more than I can speak. If you could save Hilary for us, I believe you would, although you do not know half her worth. But when one has an angel-visitant on earth, one feels her stay must be precarious, and may be short.” “Perhaps so; but surely Heaven will hear your prayers, and she will be restored.” “Captain Hepburn, when you have twice mourned, as I have done, over the heart’s dearest treasure, you will learn perhaps, better I hope than I have learned the lesson, not to make a mortal’s life your idol; and to know that the Love which is above all other love, sees not as we see, judges not as we judge, but works always for our best and surest interests, even when it thwarts our weak and passionate desires here. We never know what is unfortunate or what is good for us, except the one thing, submissive trust. I have no other wish, but that, come what may, I may be patient and resigned.” Captain Hepburn was silent. What was his short-lived affection, true and warm as it was, compared with the fond love of a father for his eldest daughter? His heart smote him for his selfish wishes, as he thought that he had even for a moment contemplated taking her away himself; that he had hoped to tempt her to another home. “No, never,” said he to himself, “never will I rob their household of its dearest treasure; never shall this fond and trusting father charge me with stealing away the daughter in whom he delights. Every selfish desire of my own shall yield to his happiness, and unless I can really fill the place of a son to him, I will not deprive him of the child on whom his comfort depends. If my love can add to their happiness, it will be well for me; if not, it must be crushed and extinguished in the performance of higher duties.”