THE WINDOW

own accuracy of judgement. What he said was
true. It was always true. He was incapable of
untruth; never tampered with a fact; never
altered a disagreeable word to suit the pleasure
or convenience of any mortal being, least of all
of his own children, who, sprung from his loins,
should be aware from childhood that life is diffi-
cult; facts uncompromising; and the passage to
that fabled land where our brightest hopes are
extinguished, our frail barks founder in darkness
(here Mr. Ramsay would straighten his back and
narrow his little blue eyes upon the horizon), one
that needs, above all, courage, truth, and the
power to endure.

" But it may be fine—I expect it will be fine,"
said Mrs. Ramsay, making some little twist of the
reddish-brown stocking she was knitting, im-
patiently. If she finished it to-night, if they did
go to the Lighthouse after all, it was to be given
to the Lighthouse keeper for his little boy, who
was threatened with a tuberculous hip; together
with a pile of old magazines, and some tobacco,
indeed whatever she could find lying about, not
really wanted, but only littering the room, to
give those poor fellows who must be bored to
death sitting all day with nothing to do but
polish the lamp and trim the wick and rake
about on their scrap of garden, something to