THE LIGHTHOUSEto give him, when he left her that morning, she hadgiven him at last.

"He has landed," she said aloud. “It is finished."Then, surging up, puffing slightly, old Mr. Car-michael stood beside her, looking like an old pagangod, shaggy, with weeds in his hair and the trident(it was only a French novel) in his hand. He stoodby her on the edge of the lawn, swaying a little in hisbulk and said, shading his eyes with his hand: "Theywill have landed," and she felt that she had beenright. They had not needed to speak. They had beenthinking the same things and he had answered herwithout her asking him anything. He stood there asif he were spreading his hands over all the weaknessand suffering of mankind; she thought he was sur-veying, tolerantly and compassionately, their finaldestiny. Now he has crowned the occasion, shethought, when his hand slowly fell, as if she hadseen him let fall from his great height a wreath ofviolets and asphodels which, fluttering slowly, layat length upon the earth.

Quickly, as if she were recalled by somethingover there, she turned to her canvas. There it was—her picture. Yes, with all its greens and blues, itslines running up and across, its attempt at some-thing. It would be hung in the attics, she thought;309
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