"As good as Vince could have done at the smithy," she said. "That boy's going to be a tinker."

Marakas examined the tool.

"Did you see how he did it?" he asked.

"No. I heard his hammering, but I didn't pay him much heed. You know how he's always fooling with bits of metal and such."

Marakas nodded and set the tongs aside.

"Where is he now?"

"Down by the irrigation ditch, I think," she answered. "He splashes about there."

"I'll walk down and see him, tell him he was a good boy for mending that," he said, crossing the room and lifting the latch.

Outside, he turned the corner and took the sloping path past the huge tree in the direction of the fields. Insects buzzed in the grasses. A bird warbled somewhere above him. A dry breeze stirred his hair. As he walked, he thought somewhat proudly of the child they had taken. He was certainly healthy and strong--and very clever....

"Mark?" he called when he had reached the ditch.

"Over here, Dad," came a faint reply from around the bend to his right.

He moved in that direction.

"Where?" he asked, after a time.

"Down here."

Approaching the edge, he looked over, seeing Mark and the thing with which he was playing. It appeared that the boy had placed a smooth, straight stick just above the water's surface, resting each of its ends loosely in grooves among rock heaps he had built up on either side; and at the middle of the stick was affixed a series of squarish--wings?--which the flowing water pushed against, turning it round and round. A peculiar tingle of trepidation passed over him at the sight of it--why, he was not certain--but this vanished moments later as he followed the rotating vanes with his eyes, becoming a sense of pleasure at his son's achievement.