THE LIGHTHOUSE

the firmness of her lips, made the air thick, rolled
down her cheeks. She had perfect control of
herself—Oh yes!—in every other way. Was she
crying then for Mrs. Ramsay, without being
aware of any unhappiness? She addressed old
Mr. Carmichael again. What was it then? What
did it mean? Could things thrust their hands up
and grip one; could the blade cut; the fist grasp?
Was there no safety? No learning by heart of the
ways of the world? No guide, no shelter, but all
was miracle, and leaping from the pinnacle of a
tower into the air? Could it be, even for elderly
people, that this was life?—startling, unexpected,
unknown? For one moment she felt that if they
both got up, here, now on the lawn, and demanded
an explanation, why was it so short, why was it
so inexplicable, said it with violence, as two fully
equipped human beings from whom nothing should
be hid might speak, then, beauty would roll itself
up; the space would fill; those empty flourishes
would form into shape; if they shouted loud enough
Mrs. Ramsay would return. " Mrs. Ramsay! "
she said aloud, " Mrs. Ramsay! " The tears ran
down her face.

[Macalister's boy took one of the fish and cut
a square out of its side to bait his hook with. The

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