was made of Taffy in his report; but
the great man took the first opportunity to offer him the post of
foreman of the works, so there was certainly nothing to be grumbled
at. The work did not actually start until the following spring; for
the rock, to receive the foundations, had to be bored some feet below
high-water level, and this could only be attempted on calm days or
when a southerly wind blew from the high land well over the workmen's
heads, leaving the inshore water smooth. On such days Taffy, looking
up from his work, would catch sight of a small figure on the
cliff-top leaning aslant to the wind and watching.

For the child was adventurous and took no account of his lameness.
Perhaps if he thought of it at all, having no chance to compare
himself with other children, he accepted his lameness as a condition
of childhood--something he would grow out of. His mother could not
keep him indoors; he fidgeted continually. But he would sit or stand
quiet by the hour on the cliff-top watching the men as they drilled
and fixed the dynamite, and waiting for the bang of it. Best of all,
however, were the days when his grandfather allowed him inside the
light-house, to clamber about the staircase and ladders, to watch the
oiling and trimming of the great lantern, and the ships moving slowly
on the horizon. He asked a thousand questions about them.

"I think," said he one day before he was three years old, "that my
father is in one of those ships."

"Bless the child!" exclaimed old Pezzack. "Who says you have a
father?"

"_Everybody_ has a father. Dicky Tregenza has one; they both work
down at the rock. I asked Dicky, and he told me."

"Told 'ee what?"

"That everybody has a father. I asked him if mine was out in one of
those ships, and he said very likely. I asked mother, too, but she
was washing-up and wouldn't listen."

Old Pezzack regarded the child grimly. "'Twas to be, I s'pose," he
muttered.

Lizzie Pezzack had never set foot inside the Raymonds' cottage.
Humility, gentle soul as she was, could on some points be as
unchristian as other women. As time went on it seemed that not a
soul beside herself and Taffy knew of Honoria's suspicion. She even
doubted, and Taffy doubted too, if Lizzie herself knew such an
accusation had been made. Certainly never by word or look had Lizzie
hinted at it. Yet Humility could not find it in her heart to
forgive her. "She may be innocent," was the thought; "b