the midnight sun
It was a wooden image of the Virgin -LRB- about the length of my hand -RRB- daubed over with gilt and blue paint , and when he stuck it up in front of his face as he lay in his sleeping-bag , I knew that he expected to go out before morning , and wished _ that _ to be the last thing his old eyes should rest on . I am not much of a man for saints myself -LRB- having found that we get out of tight places middling well without them -RRB- , but perhaps what Treacle did got down into some secret place of my soul , for I felt calmer as I fell asleep , and when I awoke it was not from the sound of my darling 's voice , but from a sort of deafening silence . The roaring of the wind had ceased ; the blizzard was over ; the lamp that hung from the staff of the tent had gone out ; and there was a sheet of light coming in from an aperture in the canvas . It was the midnight sun of the Antarctic , and when I raised my head I saw that it fell full on the little gilded image of the Virgin . Anybody who has never been where I was then may laugh if he likes and welcome , but that was enough for me . It was all right ! Somebody was looking after my dear one !