“And your wit occulting,” suggested Honoria, in her old light manner. “What is it?--three flashes to the minute?” He laughed and hurried them from the tea-table. Mrs. Venning bade them a merry good-bye as they took leave of her. “Come along, mother.” But Humility had changed her mind. “No,” said she. “I’ll wait in the doorway. I can just see the lantern from the garden gate, you know. You two can wait by the old light-house, and call to me when the time comes.” She watched them from the doorway as they took the path toward the cliff, toward the last ray of sunset fading across the dusk of the sea. The evening was warm, and she sat bareheaded with her lace-work on her knee; but presently she put it down. “I must be taking to spectacles soon,” she said to herself. “My eyes are not what they used to be.” Taffy and Honoria reached the old light-house and halted by its white-painted railing. Below them the new pillar stood up in full view, young and defiant. A full tide lapped its base, feeling this comely and untried adversary as a wrestler shakes hands before engaging. And from its base the column, after a gentle inward curve--enough to give it a look of lissomeness and elastic strength-- sprang upright straight and firm to the lantern, ringed with a gallery and capped with a cupola of copper not yet greened by the weather; in outline as simple as a flower, in structure to the understanding eye almost as subtly organised, adapted and pieced into growth. “So that is your ambition now?” said Honoria, after gazing long. She added, “I do not wonder.” “It does not stop there, I’m afraid.” There was a pause, as though her words had thrown him into a brown study. “Look!” she cried. “There is someone in the lantern--with a light in his hand. He is lighting up!” Taffy ran back a pace or two toward the cottage and shouted, waving his hand. In a moment Humility appeared at the gate and waved in answer, while the strong light flashed seaward. They listened; but if she called, the waves at their feet drowned her voice. They turned and gazed at the light, counting, timing the flashes; two short flashes with but five seconds between, then darkness for twenty seconds, and after it a long steady stare. Abruptly he asked, “Would you care to cross over and see the lantern?” “What, in the cradle?” “I can work it easily. It’s not dangerous in the least; a bit daunting, perhaps.” “But I’m not easily frightened, you know. Yes, I should like it greatly.” They descended the cliff to the cable. The iron cradle stood ready as Taffy had left it when he came ashore. She stepped in lightly, scarcely touching for a second the hand he put out to guide her. “Better sit low,” he advised; and she obeyed, disposing her skirts on the floor caked with dry mud from the workmen’s boots. He followed her, and launched the cradle over the deep twilight.