saw, the outline of the Rings. He had always been grateful, as
people who understood him knew. But this evening his gratitude
seemed a gift of small account. The ear was deaf, and what thanks
of his could reach it? The body was dust, and in what ecstasy of
his could it share? The spirit had fled, in agony and loneliness,
never to know that it bequeathed him salvation.
He filled his pipe, and then sat pressing the unlit tobacco with
his thumb. "What am I to do?" he thought. "Can he notice the
things he gave me? A parson would know. But what's a man like me
to do, who works all his life out of doors?" As he wondered, the
silence of the night was broken. The whistle of Mr. Pembroke's
train came faintly, and a lurid spot passed over the land--
passed, and the silence returned. One thing remained that a man
of his sort might do. He bent down reverently and saluted the
child; to whom he had given the name of their mother.
End of The Project Gutenberg Etext The Longest Journey, by E. M. Forster