TO THE LIGHTHOUSEher father, whom she grazed also by an inch; norfor her mother, who called "Cam! I want you a mo-ment!" as she dashed past. She was off like a bird,bullet, or arrow, impelled by what desire, shot bywhom, at what directed, who could say? What,what? Mrs. Ramsay pondered, watching her. Itmight be a vision—of a shell, of a wheelbarrow, ofa fairy kingdom on the far side of the hedge; or itmight be the glory of speed; no one knew. But whenMrs. Ramsay called "Cam!" a second time, theprojectile dropped in mid career, and Cam camelagging back, pulling a leaf by the way, to hermother.

What was she dreaming about, Mrs. Ramsay won-dered, seeing her engrossed, as she stood there, withsome thought of her own, so that she had to repeatthe message twice—ask Mildred if Andrew, MissDoyle, and Mr. Rayley have come back?— Thewords seemed to be dropped into a well, where, ifthe waters were clear, they were also so extraordi-narily distorting that, even as they descended, onesaw them twisting about to make Heaven knowswhat pattern on the floor of the child's mind. Whatmessage would Cam give the cook? Mrs. Ramsaywondered. And indeed it was only by waiting pa-tiently, and hearing that there was an old woman inthe kitchen with very red cheeks, drinking soup out84
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