Taffy returned from the light-house for his dinner to find a
registered postal packet lying on the table. He glanced up and met
his mother's gaze; but let the thing lie while he ate his meal, and
having done, picked it up and carried it away with him unopened.

On the cliff-side, in a solitary place, he broke the seal.
He guessed well enough what the packet contained: the silver medal
procured for him by the too officious coroner. And the coroner,
finding him obstinate against a public presentation, had forwarded
the medal with an effusive letter. Taffy frowned over its opening
sentences, and without reading farther crumpled the paper into a
tight ball. He turned to examine the medal, holding it between
finger and thumb; or rather, his eyes examined it while his brain ran
back along the tangled procession of hopes and blunders, wrongs and
trials and lessons hardly learnt, of which this mocking piece of
silver symbolised the end and the reward. In that minute he saw
Honoria and George, himself and Lizzie Pezzack as figures travelling
on a road that stretched back to childhood; saw behind them the
anxious eyes of his parents, Sir Harry's debonair smile, the sinister
face of old Squire Moyle, malevolent yet terribly afraid; saw that
the moving figures could not control their steps, that the watching
faces were impotent to warn; saw finally beside the road other ways
branching to left and right, and down these undestined and neglected
avenues the ghosts of ambitions unattempted, lives not lived, all
that might have been.

Well, here was the end of it, this ironical piece of silver. . . .
With sudden anger he flung it from him; sent it spinning far out over
the waters. And the sea, his old sworn enemy, took the votive
offering. He watched it drop--drop; saw the tiny splash as it
disappeared.

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 ta