THE LIGHTHOUSEbe free then. Both of them, looking at each otherfor a moment, had a sense of escape and exaltation,what with the speed and the change. But the breezebred in Mr. Ramsay too the same excitement, and,as old Macalister turned to fling his line overboard,he cried out aloud,

"We perished," and then again, "each alone."And then with his usual spasm of repentance or shy-ness, pulled himself up, and waved his hand towardsthe shore.

"See the little house," he said pointing, wishingCam to look. She raised herself reluctantly andlooked. But which was it? She could no longer makeout, there on the hillside, which was their house. Alllooked distant and peaceful and strange. The shoreseemed refined, far away, unreal. Already the littledistance they had sailed had put them far from itand given it the changed look, the composed look,of something receding in which one has no longerany part. Which was their house? She could not seeit.

"But I beneath a rougher sea," Mr. Ramsay mur-mured. He had found the house and so seeing it,he had also seen himself there; he had seen himselfwalking on the terrace, alone. He was walking upand down between the urns; and he seemed to him-self very old and bowed. Sitting in the boat, he247
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