TO THE LIGHTHOUSEstretched his arms out one dark morning, but,Mrs. Ramsay having died rather suddenly thenight before, he stretched his arms out. They ilremained empty.]

So with the house empty and the doors lockedand the mattresses rolled round, those stray airs,advance guards of great armies, blustered in,brushed bare boards, nibbled and fanned, metnothing in bedroom or drawing-room that whollyresisted them but only hangings that {lapped,wood that creaked, the bare legs of tables, saucepans and china already furred, tarnished, cracked.What people had shed and left—a pair of shoes,a shooting cap, some faded skirts and coats inwardrobes-thsse alone kept the human shapeand in the emptiness indicated how once they werefilled and animated; how once hands were busywith hooks and buttons; how once the lookingglass had held a face; had held a world hollowedout in which a figure turned, a hand flashed, thedoor opened, in came children rushing andtumbling; and went out again. Now, day afterday, light turned, like a flower reflected in water,its clear image on the wall opposite. Only theshadows of the trees, flourishing in the wind,made obeisance on the wall, and for a moment2oo