“He must have reached it，”said Lily Briscoe aloud，feeling suddenly completely tired out。For the Lighthouse had become almost invisible，had melted away into a blue haze，and the effort of looking at it and the effort of thinking of him landing there，which both seemed to be one and the same effort，had stretched her body and mind to the utmost。Ah，but she was relieved。Whatever she had wanted to give him，when he left her that morning，she had given him at last。
“He has landed，”she said aloud。“It is finished。”Then，surging up，puffing slightly，old Mr。Carmichael stood beside her，looking like an old pagan god，shaggy，with weeds in his hair and the trident（it was only a French novel）in his hand。He stood by her on the edge of the lawn，swaying a little in his bulk and said，shading his eyes with his hand：“They will have landed，”and she felt that she had been right。They had not needed to speak。They had been thinking the same things and he had answered her without her asking him anything。He stood there as if he were spreading his hands over all the weakness and suffering of mankind；she thought he was surveying，tolerantly and compassionately，their final destiny。Now he has crowned the occasion，she thought，when his hand slowly fell，as if she had seen him let fall from his great height a wreath of violets and asphodels which，fluttering slowly，lay at length upon the earth。
Quickly，as if she were recalled by something over there，she turned to her canvas。There it was-her picture。Yes，with all its greens and blues，its lines running up and across，its attempt at something。It would be hung in the attics，she thought；it would be destroyed。But what did that matter？she asked herself，taking up her brush again。She looked at the steps；they were empty；she looked at her canvas；it was blurred。With a sudden intensity，as if she saw it clear for a second，she drew a line there，in the centre。It was done；it was finished。Yes，she thought，laying down her brush in extreme fatigue，I have had my vision。