“True, my dear sir, it leaves me no choice, no room for hesitation, which, perhaps, is a blessing. Could I consult my feelings, Miss Gwyneth, thus abruptly, and under such circumstances, to quit your father’s roof, would be the last thing I should wish; nothing would be more precious to me than delay might I indulge in it. Maurice, will you help me to make arrangements as to the means of going?” In a couple of hours more every thing was ready for starting, and Captain Hepburn had nothing to do but to say farewell to his host and Gwyneth. “If it is in your power,” said Mr. Duncan, as he grasped the sailor’s hand, “we shall be happy to see you here again before leaving England; do let us hear from you, at least.” “If possible, I will run down and see you again,” said the other, warmly; “it will not be want of will that can stop me, my dear sir; I shall be very, very busy, I know; but my memory and my heart will be here with you; and my first wish will be that you may have improving tidings of your daughter to communicate. Maurice has promised to write.” “You shall hear regularly, if you are so kind as to wish it,” replied the clergyman; “but, Captain Hepburn, take your heart to your work, or I fear it will be but ill performed, and we shall have spoiled a good officer.” “My professional heart, sir, may go with me, but when memory wishes to conjure up an image of domestic happiness, purity, piety, affection, truth, and all lovely virtues, it will certainly go back mechanically to the Vicar of Hurstdene and his charming daughters.” “God bless you,” replied the other, shaking his hand again and again; “you have been a blessing to me and mine; I owe you, under Providence, the lives of one, two, perhaps three of my children; and if a father’s warmest prayers and most heartfelt benediction can call down aught of blessing or well-being for you, then may you be sure of happiness, lasting, satisfying happiness, wherever you may go. Farewell!” To such words, at such a moment, the only answer was the low, earnest “Thank you!” of subdued feeling, and the close-pressed hand lingering long in a friendly grasp. Both Gwyneth’s hands, taken and clasped in silence for a moment, and then a softly-whispered “Farewell!” which the quivering lip could hardly utter, was all he had firmness for, as he turned away. “Have you no message for the absent ones?” inquired she, half-reproachfully, as she accompanied him to the porch. “I pass ‘the Ferns’ on my road. I shall call there to hear the latest news, and at least, see your sisters, Sybil and Nest,” was his justification, which amply satisfied Gwyneth. He reached “the Ferns” just as Charles Huyton was on the point of stepping into his carriage to drive over to the Vicarage. He turned back, however, and accompanied his guest into the house, who explained his errand as they crossed the hall.