a mirror of frankness; and the servants were painfully aware of two lamentable facts: First, he could be cruel and vengeful; and second, he could lie. Of this, however, his grandfather was ignorant.

The servants loved him too well to pain him by the telling, while the boy was wise and wary enough to hide his darker side from those who had authority to punish.

On the same November day that saw the smuggler chief lay dying in the stone cottage by the Cove, Sir William Chester lay dying in one of the tapestried chambers of Allerdale Castle.

He had sent for Matthew, and the boy had come—had come reluctantly enough from the making of a rabbit-trap.

With his failing hand on the lad’s head, Sir William told him of his father—told him what a good, true and loyal man he was.

“And may I not hope, my boy, that you will grow up to be like him? You don’t know how dearly he loves you; how proud he is of his son; nor do you realize how much of his joy and gladness in the future is dependent upon your success in life. Oh! Matthew! Matthew! Will you not strive, with all your might, to make your father happy and blessed? You can do it. Let him know that his beloved boy is good and true, and honest, and kind of heart—let him know this, and he will be as happy as a man can be. You will try, won’t you?”

The boy kicked at the carpet with his foot; he gazed out at a neighboring window; gazed everywhere save into the watchful eyes of the speaker.

At length, when the baronet had finished what he had to say, Master Matthew grunted out a dubious—“Yes—I s’pose so”—and speedily thereafter sought his trap.

After this the baronet called his little daughter to his bedside; and when he had kissed her he fancied that he saw a cloud on her open brow and a look of disappointment in her bright eyes.

“What is the matter with my darling?” he asked, drawing her head down upon his pillow.

And pretty soon it came out. Percy had promised her that he would come up that afternoon and help her in her lessons.

Practically he had become her teacher, and she looked forward to his coming with so much of eagerness that failure on his part became to her a bitter disappointment.

“Well, well, little pet, do not worry. He may come yet.”

“No, no, papa, he cannot come. His papa is sick, and is dying! Oh! think of it! He will never have a papa any more. Dear papa! you won’t die, will you? Oh, tell me that you will not!”

A convulsion shook the dying man from head to foot. He had spoken to his child of death, had sought to accustom her to the thought; but not yet had he told her that he was surely leaving her.

He could not do it now—could not tell her that he was dying; but he told her she must be brave and strong; and she must remember that, even though he should be taken from her, she would have her dear grandpa left, who would love her always.

With regard to Percy, of whom his daughter had spoken, the baronet had no fixed thoughts of any kind. He knew the boy—knew him to be the son of a man who was said to be a noted smuggler; but, somehow, the idea of smuggling, as an offence, did not strike him with anything akin to horror.

On the contrary, he thought of it without pain and even without bitterness. Though he would not have willingly admitted a smuggler to his friendship, he would not make war against him. And, further, he would not visit the sins of the father upon the head of the child.

He had met Percy Maitland, and had spoken with him, and had been most agreeably surprised by the beauty of person, and his evident beauty and purity of mind.

He had seen enough of the boy to feel assured that the errors of the sire had not in the least given taint to the son.

Another thing had wrought somewhat upon Sir William’s mind with regard to Percy Maitland. When he had become acquainted with him, the first thought that came to him thereafter found vent in these words, spoken aloud, to himself:

“Oh, what would I give if Matthew could be like that boy! What a blessing he might be to his father! What a blessing to us all!”

He knew that during the summer Cordelia had become not only acquainted, but intimate with the smuggler’s son. One day the little pet had surprised her father by asking him a question in very good French.

“For mercy’s sake! where did you learn that?” he had asked her.

“Ho! Percy taught me; and he is going to teach me to read French. Won’t it be nice?”

And the baronet had suffered it to go on. It was enough for him that his child was the happier for this friendship; and, further, that under its influence she was really improving.

She was learning rapidly. Of danger in the future he never thought.

As the day drew towards its close Sir William found himself alone with the earl. The legal steps necessary towards constituting the latter guardian of the child, with full authority, had all been taken, and it only remained for him to give such instructions as he had to give.

The papers had been filled out, signed, sealed and witnessed some time before, and the earl had them in his possession, ready to act when the time should come.

“Lord Allerdale,” said the baronet, when all preliminary matters had been disposed of. “I shall not see the light of another day. You know that.”

“I suppose,” replied the earl, with a faint, fleeting smile, “if I would be in the fashion I ought to declare that I do not know any such thing; but alas! I know it but too well. Still, I will give you more time than that. You shall not leave us to-night, nor yet to-morrow. No, no—we must keep you for days to come, if not for weeks.”

“Well, well,” rejoined the invalid, quickly, “be sure I will live if I can; but we will be on the safe side. The few directions I have to give you I will give you now, and then the end may come when it will. It will find us prepared.”

“You are right in that, William. What you have to say to me I would have you say at once. And I am anxious to know your wishes. Remember, you have given your child into my care and keeping; and, though you have confidence in my judgment, yet I would have from you certain directions for my guidance.”

“I have confidence in your judgment, my lord,” said the baronet, with a warm light in his failing eyes, “but it is in your great love—in the goodness of your heart—that I most hopefully trust, for I know you will love my darling when I am gone. I know it.”

“Love her!” repeated the old man, the tones seeming to come from the profoundest depths of his heart, “I shall love her now—as a bright angel, given to bless and brighten and beautify the evening of my life! Oh! I have no words that can tell my love for the little seraph.”

For a time both the men gave way to their feelings in silence. At length the baronet broke the spell.

“My lord, you have spoken of directions from me. I have one or two to give you, and that is all. And here let us speak frankly. The time was when, I know, your son had a wish that his boy and my little girl should grow up to become husband and wife. Perhaps, at one time, I may have had some such thought; but, with my present light, I certainly