THE WINDOWown accuracy of judgement. What he said wastrue. It was always true. He was incapable ofuntruth; never tampered with a fact; neveraltered a disagreeable word to suit the pleasureor convenience of any mortal being, least of allof his own children, who, sprung from his loins,should be aware from childhood that life is diffi-cult; facts uncompromising; and the passage tothat fabled land where our brightest hopes areextinguished, our frail barks founder in darkness(here Mr. Ramsay would straighten his back andnarrow his little blue eyes upon the horizon), onethat needs, above all, courage, truth, and thepower to endure.

"But it may be fine—I expect it will be fine,"said Mrs. Ramsay, making some little twist of thereddish-brown stocking she was knitting, im-patiently. If she finished it to-night, if they didgo to the Lighthouse after all, it was to be givento the Lighthouse keeper for his little boy, whowas threatened with a tuberculous hip; togetherwith a pile of old magazines, and some tobacco,indeed whatever she could find lying about, notreally wanted, but only littering the room, togive those poor fellows who must be bored todeath sitting all day with nothing to do butpolish the lamp and trim the wick and rakeabout on their scrap of garden, something to13
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