THE WINDOWsitting and looking, sitting and looking, with herwork in her hands until she became the thing shelooked at—that light for example. And it wouldlift up on it some little phrase or other which hadbeen lying in her mind like that——“ Children don’tforget, children don't forget "——which she wouldrepeat and begin adding to it, It will end, It willend, she said. It will come, it will come, whensuddenly she added, We are in the hands of theLord.

But instantly she was annoyed with herself forsaying that. Who had said it? not she ; she hadbeen trapped into saying something she did notmean. She looked up over her knitting and metthe third stroke and it seemed to her like her owneyes meeting her own eyes, searching as she alonecould search into her mind and her heart, purifyingout of existence that lie, any lie. She praisedherself in praising the light, without vanity, forshe was stern, she was searching, she was beautifullike that light. It was odd, she thought, how ifone was alone, one leant to things, inanimatethings; trees, streams, flowers; felt they expressed one; felt they became one; felt theyknew one, in a sense were one; felt an irrationaltenderness thus (she looked at that long steadylight) as for oneself. There rose, and she lookedand looked with her needles suspended, there101