TO THE LIGHTHOUSEand all its toil, divine goodness had parted the cur-tain and displayed behind it, single, distinct, the hareerect; the wave falling; the boat rocking, which, didwe deserve them, should be ours always. But alas, di-vine goodness, twitching the cord, draws the curtain;it does not please him; he covers his treasures in adrench of hail, and so breaks them, so confuses themthat it seems impossible that their calm should everreturn or that we should ever compose from theirfragments a perfect whole or read in the littered piecesthe clear words of truth. For our penitence deserves aglimpse only; our toil respite only.

The nights now are full of wind and destruction;the trees plunge and bend and their leaves fly helterskelter until the lawn is plastered with them and theylie packed in gutters and choke rain pipes and scatterdamp paths. Also the sea tosses itself and breaks itself,and should any sleeper fancying that he might find onthe beach an answer to his doubts, a sharer of his soli-tude, throw off his bedclothes and go down by himselfto walk on the sand, no image with semblance ofserving and divine promptitude comes readily to handbringing the night to order and making the worldreflect the compass of the soul. The hand dwindles inhis hand; the voice bellows in his ear. Almost it wouldappear that it is useless in such confusion to ask thenight those questions as to what, and why, and where-fore, which tempt the sleeper from his bed to seek ananswer.

[Mr. Ramsay stumbling along a passage stretchedhis arms out one dark morning, but, Mrs. Ramsayhaving died rather suddenly the night before, hestretched his arms out. They remained empty.]150

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