“And,” Humility pursued, “we had put ourselves in the wrong by accepting help.  One sees now it is always best to be independent; though at the time it seemed a fine prospect for him.  The worst was our not telling him.  That was terribly unfair.  As for the rest—­ well, after all, to know yourself guiltless is the great thing, is it not?  What others think doesn’t matter in comparison with that.  And then of course he knew that I, his mother, never believed the falsehood—­no, not for a moment.”

“But it spoiled his life?”

Now Humility had spoken, and still stood, with her eyes resting on the trunk.  Beneath its lid, she knew, and on top of Taffy’s books and other treasures, lay a parcel wrapped in tissue paper—­a dog collar with the inscription “Honoria from Taffy.”  So, by lifting the lid of her thoughts a little—­a very little—­more, she might have given Honoria a glimpse of something which her actual answer, truthful as it was, concealed.

“No.  I wouldn’t say that.  If it had spoilt his life—­well, you have a child of your own and can understand.  As it is, it has strengthened him, I think.  He will make his mark—­in a different way.  Just now he is only a foreman among masons; but he has a career opening.  Yes, I can forgive you at last.”

And, being Humility, she had spoken the truth.  But being a woman, even in the act of pardon she could not forego a small thrust, and in giving must withhold something.

And Honoria, being a woman, divined that something was withheld.

“And Taffy—­your son—­do you think that he—?”

“He never speaks, if he thinks of it.  He will be here presently.  You know—­do you not? they are to light the great lantern on the new lighthouse to-night for the first time.  The men have moved in, and he is down with them making preparations.  You have seen the notices of the Trinity Board?  They have been posted for months.  Taffy is as eager over it as a boy; but he promised to be back before sunset to drink tea with me in honour of the event; and afterwards I was to walk down to the cliff with him to see.”

“Would you mind if I stayed?”

Humility considered before answering.  “I had rather you stayed.  He’s like a boy over this business; but he’s a man, after all.”

After this they fell into quite trivial talk, while Humility prepared the tea things.

“Your mother—­Mrs. Venning—­how does she face the journey?”

“You must see her,” said Humility, smiling, and led her into the room where the old lady reclined in bed, with a flush on each waxen cheek.  She had heard their voices.

“Bless you”—­she was quite cheerful—­“I’m ready to go as far as they’ll carry me!  All I ask is that in the next place they’ll give me a window where I can see the boy’s lamp when he’s built it.”

Humility brought in the table and tea-things, and set them out by the invalid’s bed.  She went out into the kitchen to look to the kettle.  In that pause Honoria found it difficult to meet Mrs. Venning’s eyes; but the old lady was wise enough to leave grudges to others.  It was enough, in the time left to her, to accept what happened and leave the responsibility to Providence.