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THE LIGHTHOUSElanding there, which both seemed to be one andthe same effort, had stretched her body and mindto the utmost. Ah, but she was relieved. What-ever she had wanted to give him, when he left herthat morning, she had given him at last.

"He has landed," she said aloud. "It isfinished." Then, surging up, puffing slightly, oldMr. Carmichael stood beside her, looking like anold pagan God, shaggy, with weeds in his hairand the trident (it was only a French novel) in hishand. He stood by her on the edge of the lawn,swaying a little in his bulk, and said, shading hiseyes with his hand: "They will have landed,"and she felt that she had been right. They hadnot needed to speak. They had been thinkingthe same things and he had answered her withouther asking him anything. He stood there spread-ing his hands over all the weakness and sufferingof mankind; she thought he was surveying, toler-antly, compassionately, their final destiny. Nowhe has crowned the occasion, she thought, whenhis hand slowly fell, as if she had seen him letfall from his great height a wreath of violets andasphodels which, fluttering slowly, lay at lengthupon 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 green and blues,319