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THE WINDOW 71church towers and mountains, and all with whitefoam at the top.'

She turned the page; there were only a few linesmore, so that she would finish the story, though itwas past bed-time. It was getting late. The lightin the garden told her that; and the whitening of theflowers and something grey in the leaves conspiredtogether to rouse in her a feeling of anxiety. What

it was about she could not think at first. Then sheremembered; Paul and Minta and Andrew had notcome back. She summoned before her again thelittle group on the terrace in front of the hall door,standing looking up into the sky. Andrew had hisnet and basket. That meant he was going to catchcrabs and things. That meant he would climb outon to a rock; he would be cut off. Or coming backsingle file on one of those little paths above the cliffone of them might slip. He would roll and thencrash. It was growing quite dark.

But she did not let her voice change in the least asshe finished the story, and added, shutting the book,and speaking the last words as if she had made themup herself, looking into James’s eyes: 'And therethey are living still at this very time.’

'And that’s the end,’ she said, and she saw in hiseyes, as the interest of the story died away in them,something else take its place; something wondering,pale, like the reflection of a light, which at once madehim gaze and marvel. Turning, she looked across thebay, and there, sure enough, coming regularly acrossthe waves, first two quick strokes and then one longsteady stroke, was the light of the Lighthouse.It had been lit.