He had been proud of his boy’s beauty and proud of his surpassing intellectual qualities; and when Percy had decided that he would not sail in the brig as one of her crew--that he could not find it in his heart to become a smuggler--the chieftain had seen the curate of the village church, a finished scholar, and engaged him to be private tutor to his boy. And so it had been. Strangely enough, the mother had fought against all this. She had insisted upon it--had put forth all her influence to that end--that the boy should follow the fortunes of his father, and be ready, when the time should come, to take command of the smuggler brig. But she had pleaded and labored in vain. The love of the father had been proof against all opposing forces. A November day was drawing to its close, and a November chill was in the fierce gusts that shook the limbs of the forest trees outside, as Hugh Maitland lay dying in the old stone cottage. For several minutes he had gazed upon the face of his son, thinking deeply. By and by he spoke: “Percy!” The boy started and looked up. Then he arose and would have advanced to the bedside, but his father waved him back. “No, no. Sit down, my boy; I have something to say to you. Now,” when the youth was again seated, “I wish you to answer me. Have I not, so far as I could, so far as it was in me to do, been a kind and loving father to you?” “Oh, my father!” cried the son, extending his clasped hands towards the bed. “You have been all that an earthly parent could be. I know you have loved me well and truly. Since I can remember your whole heart has been mine; and you 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.