“I congratulate you on your appointment,” exclaimed Charles, with much sincerity; “I am truly rejoiced to hear it. I have learned enough of a sailor’s feelings, during my acquaintance with Maurice, to know how, beyond all other things, they value professional employment, and covet professional distinction. I will call my cousin to you, and, perhaps, as you are going, you will like to say good-by to Miss Sybil Duncan, and little Nest.” “It was the particular object of my stopping here. If you will let Miss Sybil know I am here I dare say she will see me; but do not disturb Miss Fielding on my account if she is engaged.” Mr. Huyton sent a message to Sybil to inform her who waited for her in the saloon. In a moment she came running down. “How good of you to call, Captain Hepburn! I saw Maurice this morning; did he tell you?” Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke. “Could you come out with me for five minutes on the lawn?” said he, determined to speak to her without Mr. Huyton’s presence; and almost without waiting for her acquiescence, he drew the hand which he had been holding under his arm, and led her through the open window. “Tell me truly, how is your sister now?” was his first question. “Restless and feverish, but not worse――rather better if any thing; but to be kept quite quiet.” “Thank Heaven! I am come to say good-by to you,” he added, in a changed voice. She started, and exclaimed―― “Why, _must_ you just now?” He explained; and Sybil knew enough of the service to be aware that there was no choice in such a case. She listened quietly, but her eyes filled with tears as he spoke. “You must go then,” said she, sorrowfully; “how we shall miss you. I suppose I ought to be glad that you are employed, but I am so selfish as to feel very, very sorry to part. We owe you so much; and when you are gone, how can we show our gratitude to you, or make you feel how we thank you every day? What can we do for you?” “Remember me, dear Sybil; and help others, your sister above all, to remember me too. Do not let absence or time make you forget me,” said he, formality giving way before warmly excited feeling. “Forget you! oh, Captain Hepburn, never! we none of us _can_ do that. Hilary, when she knows what has happened to you, will grieve that she has not thanked you with her own lips; but will she ever _forget_ the preserver of Nest? One of the few things she has said has been to express her gratitude, and to charge me, when I saw you, to say how infinitely she felt your courage, and how much more she thanked you for that action than she would have done for her own life alone. I hoped in a few days you would have heard it from herself; but since that can not be, you must try to be satisfied with her gratitude second-hand. What shall I say to her from you, in answer, when I can talk to her again.”