And with that he shut a door and turned a key.  He had other thoughts to occupy him—­great thoughts.  The light-house was all but built.  The Chief Engineer had paid a surprise visit, praised his work, and talked about another sea light soon to be raised on the North Welsh Coast; used words that indeed hinted, not obscurely, at promotion.  And Taffy’s blood tingled at the prospect.  But, out of working hours, his thoughts were not of light-houses.  He bought maps and charts.  On Sundays he took far walks along the coast, starting at daybreak, returning as a rule long after dark, mired and footsore, and at supper too weary to talk with his mother, whose eyes watched him always.

It was a still autumn evening when Honoria came riding to visit Humility; the close of a golden day.  Its gold lingered yet along the west and fell on the whitewashed doorway where Humility sat with her lace-work.  Behind, in the east, purple and dewy, climbed the domed shadow of the world.  And over all lay that hush which the earth only knows when it rests in the few weeks after harvest.  Out here, on barren cliffs above the sea, folks troubled little about harvest.  But even out here they felt and knew the hush.

In sight of the whitewashed cottages Honoria slipped down from her saddle, removed Aide-de-camp’s bridle, and turned him loose to browse.  With the bridle on her arm she walked forward alone.  She came noiselessly on the turf, and with the click of the gate her shadow fell at Humility’s feet.  Humility looked up and saw her standing against the sunset, in her dark habit.  Even in that instant she saw also that Honoria’s face, though shaded, was more beautiful than of old.  “More dangerous” she told herself; and rose, knowing that the problem was to be solved at last.

“Good-evening!” she said, rising.  “Oh yes—­you must come inside, please; but you will have to forgive our untidiness.”

Honoria followed, wondering as of old at the beautiful manners which dignified Humility’s simplest words.

“I heard that you were to go.”

“Yes; we have been packing for a week past.  To North Wales it is—­ a forsaken spot, no better than this.  But I suppose that’s the sort of spot where light-houses are useful.”

The sun slanted in upon the packed trunks and dismantled walls; but it blazed also upon brass window-catches, fender-knobs, door-handles—­all polished and flashing like mirrors.

“I am come,” said Honoria, “now at the last—­to ask your pardon.”

“At the last?” Humility seemed to muse, staring down at one of the trunks; then went on as if speaking to herself.  “Yes, yes, it has been a long time.”

“A long injury—­a long mistake; you must believe it was an honest mistake.”

“Yes,” said Humility gravely.  “I never doubted you had been misled.  God forbid I should ask or seek to know how.”

Honoria bowed her head.