Just as they were sitting down to breakfast, the letters arrived. Among those for Captain Hepburn, there was one large, business-like, official-looking letter, with “On her Majesty’s Service,” in the corner, which was not to be seen and opened without some excitement. It was too truly a summons away from Hurstdene; a notification that his presence was greatly desired at the Admiralty, to receive his appointment to the command of a vessel fitting out at Sheerness. There was time neither for delay nor hesitation――go he must that very day; though to leave Hilary without seeing her again, ill, in his rival’s house, and utterly ignorant of his hopes, his love, his sincere love for her, was a trial which required no small amount of self-command and resolution to bear calmly. Long he sat, with his eyes bent upon the letter, with lips compressed and brows slightly knit, and cheeks glowing even through that bronzed complexion, before he could force from his tongue the words which must announce his departure, or trust his voice to speak without betraying more than he desired. How he craved a little delay; could he but have waited a week, oh, how precious the days would have been! Or had the appointment come before he had known and loved, how welcome, would then have been the announcement. But it must be done――the words must be spoken; was he turning craven then, to shrink from the duties he had undertaken, from the sacrifice required of him! Would Hilary esteem one who valued inglorious sloth and pleasure, beyond exertion and honor, and self-denial and courage! He tossed the letter across to Maurice. “There,” said he, with a smile, “see there; read it aloud, Maurice, and let your father hear!” Maurice did so. “Oh, Captain Hepburn,” exclaimed Gwyneth, starting up, and looking over her brother’s shoulder, as he read; “it is an appointment! it will take you away! how sorry, how very sorry I am!” “Thank you, Miss Gwyneth; your sorrow is more than I deserve; _your_ congratulations will be different, Duncan, I expect; shall I apply for you?” “Do, sir, I shall be delighted,” exclaimed Maurice, professional zeal and enthusiasm for the moment overpowering, with their warm glow, the cooler calculations of love, or home affections. “I should be happy indeed to serve with you again.” “And _I_ must go to-day,” observed Captain Hepburn, struggling with his own feelings in the wish to appear cheerful. “To-day!” again exclaimed Gwyneth, “and Hilary away, and not able to say good-by, nor Sybil either; oh, do stay at least till to-morrow, and see Sybil again!” “You are inconsiderate, my dear Gwyneth,” said her father; “you ought to know that duty admits of no delay, and that his profession has claims on Captain Hepburn beyond and above all private ties or inclinations.”