TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

centuries of quiescence, a rock rends itself from
the mountain and hurtles crashing into the valley,
one fold of the shawl loosened and swung to
and fro. Then again peace descended; and the
shadow wavered; light bent to its own image
in adoration on the bedroom wall; when Mrs,
McNab, tearing the veil of silence with hands
that had stood in the wash-tub, grinding it with
boots that had crunched the shingle, came as
directed to open all windows, and dust the
bedrooms.

As she lurched (for she rolled like a ship at sea)
and leered (for her eyes fell on nothing directly,
but with a sidelong glance that deprecated the
scorn and anger of the world—she was witless,
she knew it), as she clutched the banisters and
hauled herself upstairs and rolled from room to
room, she sang. Rubbing the glass of the long
looking-glass and leering sideways at her swinging
figure a sound issued from her lips—something
that had been gay twenty years before on the
stage perhaps, had been hummed and danced to,
but now, coming from the toothless, bonneted,
care-taking woman, was robbed of meaning, was
like the voice of witlessness, humour, persistency
itself, trodden down but springing up again, so

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