“’Tis the Dane. He went over to Truro yesterday to the wrastlin’, an’ got thrawed. I tell’n there’s no call to be shamed. ’Twas Luke the Wendron fella did it--in the treble play--inside lock backward, and as pretty a chip as ever I see.” Mendarva began to illustrate it with foot and ankle, but checked himself, and glanced nervously over his shoulder. “Isn’ lookin’, I hope? He’s in a terrible pore about it. Won’t trust hissel’ to spake, and don’t want to see nobody. But, as I tell’n, there’s no call to be shamed; the fella took the belt in the las’ round, and turned his man over like a tab. He’s a proper angletwitch, that Wendron fella. Stank ’pon en both ends, and he’ll rise up in the middle and look at ’ee. There was no one a patch on en but the Dane; and I’ll back the Dane next time they clinch. ’Tis a nuisance, though, to have’n like this--with a big job coming on, too, over to the light-house.” Taffy looked steadily at the smith. “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. 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 good 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?” CHAPTER XXIII. THE SERVICE OF THE LAMP.