"Ha'n't 'ee heerd?" Mendarva began a long tale, the sum of which was
that the light-house had begun of late to show signs of age, to rock at
times in an ominous manner. The Trinity House surveyor had been down,
and reported, and Mendarva had the contract for some immediate repairs.
"But 'tis patching an old kettle, my son. The foundations be clamped
down to the rock, and the clamps have worked loose. The whole thing'll
have to come down in the end; you mark my words."
"But, these repairs?" Taffy interrupted. "You'll be wanting hands."
"Why, o' course."
"And a foreman—a clerk of the works—"
* * * * *
While Mendarva was telling his tale, over a hill two miles to the
westward a small donkey-cart crawled for a minute against the skyline
and disappeared beyond the ridge which hid the towans. An old man
trudged at the donkey's head; and a young woman sat in the cart with a
bundle in her arms.
The old man trudged along so deep in thought that when the donkey
without rhyme or reason came to a halt, half-way down the hill, he, too,
halted, and stood pulling a wisp of gray side-whiskers.
"Look here," he said. "You ent goin' to tell? That's your las' word, is
it?"
The young woman looked down on the bundle and nodded her head.
"There, that'll do. If you weant, you weant; I've tek'n 'ee back, an' us
must fit and make the best o't. The cheeld'll never be fit for much—born
lame like that. But 'twas to be, I s'pose."
Lizzie sat dumb, but hugged the bundle closer.
"'Tis like a judgment. If your mother'd been spared, 'twudn' have
happened. But 'twas to be, I s'pose. The Lord's ways be past findin'
out."
He woke up and struck the donkey across the rump.
"Gwan you! Gee up! What d'ee mean by stoppin' like that?"