"What's doing at the light-house ?" "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 sky-line 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 grey 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.