know, you know, father, that I have loved you in return.”

“Aye, my boy, I do know it; and I tell you truly, your love has been a blessing to me.” He paused here, and closed his eyes as though to rest.

He had spoken with difficulty, for he had become very weak, and the speaking fatigued him. Presently he looked up and spoke again. His tones were low and wavering, but with a depth that plainly told of former power and compass; and he spoke distinctly.

“Percy, I have two requests to make; two promises I ask from you in return. It is understood on all hands—your mother understands, and Donald Rodney understands and through him every man of the crew will gain knowledge—that you are, henceforth and forever, free from any connection whatever with the contraband traffic. You shall never be asked to go outside in our vessel; nor shall you be asked to help land any item of our contraband goods—Hush! Don’t thank me yet. Wait until you have heard my requests.

“My dear boy, I shall not live to see another day. I am bleeding internally. Ah! I know the signs. The end is nearer than you think. I am going—going to leave your mother alone, if you forsake her. My first petition is this: Until you have reached the age of one-and-twenty you will make the old cot your home, and give to your mother your presence and your care. Surely, you will not refuse me this. Margery has been a faithful wife to me, and I shall feel death robbed of much of its terror in the knowledge that she is not to be left alone.”

Percy saw very plainly the hand of his mother in this. He knew, as though he had heard her, that she had put that request into his father’s mouth, and had urged him to press it strongly.

But, under any circumstances, he would not have refused. He had a deep—a heartfelt—desire to be near the castle; and in what other way could he so surely attain that end?

If he took a few seconds for thought before he answered, it was not with the appearance of hesitation. When he spoke, not only were his tones frank and hearty, but the warm, loving light in his handsome face told her that he was sincere.

“Father, I will do what you ask, provided, of course, that no unforeseen event beyond my power to overcome shall interpose to prevent it.”

“That is understood, of course, and I thank you, my boy—I thank you from my heart. I shall die easier in the assurance that Margery is to have the tender, loving care of our son after I am gone. And now, Percy, to my second request.”

He paused for a little time, while his wife arose and went into the room adjoining, returning presently with a phial and a glass.

She prepared for the sufferer a potion which one of the physicians had prescribed, and he drank it, experiencing therefrom temporary relief and strength.

“Percy, are you aware of the fact that when I am dead and gone that you will be the only living man who can safely run our brig into the Cove?”

“Rodney can do it, father,” the youth replied, with much surprise.

“No, no, he cannot. The last time in I gave up the command to him when we were about a mile outside Hood’s Island; and, if you will believe me, we came within an ace of losing the old Staghound; and, most likely, losing a few of ourselves as well. While I was looking in another direction, never dreaming of danger, we were within a dozen fathoms of the northern point of Dead Man’s Reef! Yes, my boy, had I been ten seconds later no power on earth could have saved us. Poor old Donald! He said he had no idea the reef made up so far.

“Perhaps I have been wrong. I have kept our secret too close for my own good. You learned the course almost by instinct. By the way—didn’t you tell me that you had discovered a safe channel some where about midway of that reef?”

“Yes, father, I found it last spring. It is just about midway between the southern headland of the bay and the northern extremity of the reef. I took soundings, and got all the necessary bearings for coming in. There are no reliable bearings by which to run out.”

“They’re not needful, boy. But the time may come when that way of running in may be of use. My soul! it doesn’t seem possible. I wouldn’t have believed that a course through that reef could have been found for a fair sized barge, let alone a brig. But, my dear boy, this isn’t getting on with business, and I feel that my voice is giving out.”

“Yes, father—your second request. Has it to do with piloting the brig?”

“Yes, Percy. I want you to give me your promise that, while you find a home here in the old cottage, you will pilot the brig in whenever you are asked to do so. As you know, we have other havens. For the year to come she may not have occasion to run in here more than once or twice. This is the refuge when the king’s cruisers are at our heels. On other occasions we come here but seldom.”

“Of course,” said the youth, “until I can teach others how to find the true course, I will find it for them; but, when I shall have taught Rodney, he can, in turn, teach others—”

“Ah! my boy,” interrupted the chief, “the teaching of others is the very thing we wish to avoid. You and Rodney will be enough. Surely, you can do that for the old crew after I am gone.”

“Enough, father. I give you the promise. While I shall remain here—say till I am twenty-one—whenever I shall receive due notice that the brig is outside, or is expected, and that I am wanted to pilot her in, I will take my boat and find her.”

“Bless you, Percy! Bless you! I have no more to ask. I shall die with less of regret now that I have those two pledges from you.”

“Father,” said the boy, after a time of silence, during which Margery had given her husband another dose of medicine, “who is that young fellow that has made two or three runs with you to the French coast—Ralph Tryon, I heard Rodworshiperney call him?”

“Oh” returned the failing chief, with a dubious motion of the head, “he’s nobody that you care about.”

“But—you can tell me who he is—where he came from—or—or—”

“Percy! Don’t you see? Your father is suffering.”

It was Margery who had thus interfered. The dying man would have checked her, but his voice failed him, and he sank back on the pillow with a moan of pain. Sank back and lifted not his head again; neither did he speak any more. Half an hour later the son was kneeling by the bedside in devout prayer, while the bereaved wife, now widowed, wept in the first great sorrow of her life.

The second scene is at the castle, where there is a bed on which lies one dying.

It is now November. In the early springtime Sir William Chester had come to Allerdale Castle in failing health, bringing with him his only child, Cordelia, a girl of twelve years and little more.

She was all that was left to him of his own blood to care for and to love. His wife had died several years before in India, where he was employed by the government.

His parents had both died during his youth, and brother or sister he never had. Neither had he an uncle or an own cousin. An aunt by marriage he possibly may have had, but were she living she could be nothing to him.