TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

ordinary experience, to feel simply that's a chair,
that's a table, and yet at the same time, It's a
miracle, it's an ecstasy. The problem might be
solved after all. Ah, but what had happened?
Some wave of white went over the window pane.
The air must have stirred some flounce in the
room. Her heart leapt at her and seized her and
tortured her.

" Mrs. Ramsay! Mrs, Ramsay! " she cried,

feeling the old horror come back—to want and

want and not to have. Could she inflict that still?

And then, quietly, as if she refrained, that too

became part of ordinary experience, was on a level

with the chair, with the table. Mrs. Ramsay—it

was part of her perfect goodness to Lily—sat

there quite simply, in the chair, flicked her

needles to and fro, knitted her reddish-brown

stocking, cast her shadow on the step. There

she sat.

And as if she had something she must share,
yet could hardly leave her easel, so full her mind
was of what she was thinking, of what she was
seeing, Lily went past Mr. Carmichael holding
her brush to the edge of the lawn. Where
was that boat now? Mr. Ramsay? She wanted
him.

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