“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.