THE LIGHTHOUSE

and it stayed in the mind almost like a work
of art,

" Like a work of art/' she repeated, looking
from her canvas to the drawing-room steps and
back again. She must rest for a moment. And,
resting, looking from one to the other vaguely, the
old question which traversed the sky of the soul
perpetually, the vast, the general question which
was apt to particularise itself at such moments as
these, when she released faculties that had been
on the strain, stood over her, paused over her,
darkened over her. What is the meaning of life?
That was all—a simple question; one that tended
to close in on one with years. The great revela-
tion had never come. The great revelation per-
haps never did come. Instead there were little
daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck un-
expectedly in the dark; here was one. This, that,
and the other; herself and Charles Tansley and
the breaking wave; Mrs. Ramsay bringing them
together; Mrs, Ramsay saying " Life stand still
here"; Mrs. Ramsay making of the moment
something permanent (as in another sphere Lily
herself tried to make of the moment something
permanent)—this was of the nature of a revela-
tion. In the midst of chaos there was shape;
this eternal passing and flowing (she looked at
the clouds going and the leaves shaking) was

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