TO THE LIGHTHOUSEthe years and the perishing of stars, if beforedeath stiffens his limbs beyond the power ofmovement he does a little consciously raise hisnumbed fingers to his brow, and square hisshoulders, so that when the search party comesthey will find him dead at his post, the fine figureof a soldier? Mr. Ramsay squared his shouldersand stood very upright by the urn.

Who shall blame him, if, so standing for amoment, he dwells upon fame, upon searchparties, upon cairns raised by grateful followersover his bones? Finally, who shall blame theleader of the doomed expedition, if, havingadventured to the uttermost, and used his strengthwholly to the last ounce and fallen asleep not muchcaring if he wakes or not, he now perceives bysome pricking in his toes that he lives, and doesnot on the whole object to live, but requiressympathy, and whisky, and someone to tell thestory of his suffering to at once? Who shallblame him? Who will not secretly rejoice whenthe hero puts his armour off, and halts by thewindow and gazes at his wife and son, whovery distant at first, gradually come closer andcloser, till lips and book and head are clearlybefore him, though still lovely and unfamiliarfrom the intensity of his isolation and the wasteof ages and the perishing of the stars, and finally60
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