and sinews; that
children were delicate flowers, or rather buds, which required careful
tending and gentle nursing. Mrs Potter's reply was invariably,
"Fiddlesticks!" she knew better. They were obstinate and self-willed
little brats that required constant banging. She knew how to train 'em
up, she did; and it was of no manner of use, it wasn't, to talk to _her_
upon that point.

She was right. It was of no use. As well might one have talked to the
wooden cuckoo, already referred to, in Mrs Potter's timepiece.

"Come, Martha," said a tall, broad-shouldered, deep-voiced man at her
elbow, "don't wop the poor cheeld like that. What has he been doin'--"

Mrs Potter turned to her husband with a half angry, half ashamed
glance.

"Just look at 'im, John," she replied, pointing to the small culprit,
who stood looking guilty and drenched with muddy water from hands to
shoulders and toes to nose. "Look at 'im: see what mischief he's always
gittin' into."

John, whose dress bespoke him an artisan, and whose grave earnest face
betokened him a kind husband and a loving father, said:--

"Tumblin' into dirty water ain't necessarily mischief. Come, lad, speak
up for yourself. How did it happen--"

"I felled into the water when I wos layin' the foundations, faither,"
replied the boy; pointing to a small pool, in the centre of which lay a
pile of bricks.

"What sort o' foundations d'ye mean, boy?"

"The light'ouse on the Eddystun," replied the child, with sparkling
eyes.

The man smiled, and looked at his son with interest.

"That's a brave boy," he said, quietly patting the child's head. "Get
'ee into th'ouse, Tommy, an' I'll show 'ee the right way to lay the
foundations o' the Eddystun after supper. Come, Martha," he added, as
he walked beside his wife to their dwelling near Plymouth Docks, "don't
be so hard on the cheeld; it's not mischief that ails him. It's
engineerin' that he's hankerin' after. Depend upon it, that if he is
spared to grow up he'll be a credit to us."

Mrs Potter, being "of the same opinion still," felt inclined to say
"Fiddlesticks!" but she was a good soul, although somewhat highly spiced
in the temper, and respected her husband sufficiently to hold her
tongue.

"John;" she said, after a short silence, "you're late to-night."

"Yes," answered John, with a sigh. "My work at the docks has come to an
end, an' Mr Winstanley has got all the men he requires for the repair
of the light'ous