THE LIGHTHOUSE

would be coming out to find a corner to sit in,
" Oh good-morning, Mrs. Beckwith! What a
lovely day! Are you going to be so bold as to sit
in the sun? Jasper's hidden the chairs. Do let me
find you one! " and all the rest of the usual
chatter. One need not speak at all. One glided,
one shook one's sails (there was a good deal of
movement in the bay, boats were starting off)
between things, beyond things. Empty it was not,
but full to the brim. She seemed to be standing
up to the lips in some substance, to move and
float and sink in it, yes, for these waters were un-
fathomably deep. Into them had spilled so many
lives. The Ramsays'; the children's; and all
sorts of waifs and strays of things besides. A
washerwoman with her basket; a rook; a red-hot
poker; the purples and grey-greens of flowers:
some common feeling which held the whole
together.

It was some such feeling of completeness
perhaps which, ten years ago, standing almost
where she stood now, had made her say that she
must be in love with the place. Love had a
thousand shapes. There might be lovers whose
gift it was to choose out the elements of things
and place them together and so, giving them a
wholeness not theirs in life, make of some scene,
or meeting of people (all now gone and separate),