Taffy caught up a coil of rope, sprang into a boat, and pushed across to land.  “Don’t move!” he shouted.  At the foot of the cliff he picked up Joey’s crutch and ran at full speed up the path worn by the workmen.  This led him round to the verge ten feet above the ledge where the child clung white and silent.  He looped the rope in a running noose and lowered it.

“Slip this under your arms.  Can you manage, or shall I come down?  I’ll come if you’re hurt.”

“I’ve twisted my foot.  It’s all right, now you’re come,” said the little man bravely; and slid the rope round himself in the most business-like way.

“The grass was slipper—­” he began, as soon as his feet touched firm earth:  and with that he broke down and fell to sobbing in Taffy’s arms.

Taffy carried him—­a featherweight—­to the cottage where Lizzie stood by her table washing up.  She saw them at the gate and came running out.

“It’s all right.  He slipped—­out on the cliff.  Nothing more than a scratch or two, and perhaps a sprained ankle.”

He watched while she set Joey in a chair and began to pull off his stockings.  He had never seen the child’s foot naked.  She turned suddenly, caught him looking, and pulled the stocking back over the deformity.

“Have you heard?” she asked.

“What?”

“She has a boy!  Ah!” she laughed harshly, “I thought that would hurt you.  Well, you have been a silly!”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“You don’t think you understand!” she mimicked.  “And you’re not fond of her, eh?  Never were fond of her, eh?  You silly—­to let him take her, and never tell!”

“Tell?”

She faced him, hardening her gaze.  “Yes, tell—­” She nodded slowly; while Joey, unobserved by either, looked up with wide, round eyes.

“Men don’t fight like that.”  The words were out before it struck him that one man had, almost certainly, fought like that.  Her face, however, told him nothing.  She could not know. “You have never told,” he added.

“Because—­” she began, but could not tell him the whole truth.  And yet what he said was true.  “Because you would not let me,” she muttered.

“In the churchyard, you mean—­on her wedding day?”

“Before that.”

“But before that I never guessed.”

“All the same I knew what you were.  You wouldn’ have let me.  It came to the same thing.  And if I had told—­Oh, you make it hard for me!” she wailed.

He stared at her, understanding this only—­that somehow he could control her will.

“I will never let you tell,” he said gravely.

“I hate her!”

“You shall not tell.”

“Listen”—­she drew close and touched his arm.  “He never cared for her; it’s not his way to care.  She cares for him now, I dessay—­not as she might have cared for you—­but she’s his wife, and some women are like that.  There’s her pride, any way.  Suppose—­suppose he came back to me?”