TO THE LIGHTHOUSEthe Lighthouse beam entered the rooms for amoment, sent its sudden stare over bed and wallin the darkness of winter, looked with equanimityat the thistle and the swallow, the rat and thestraw. Nothing now withstood them; nothingsaid no to them. Let the wind blow; let thepoppy seed itself and the carnation mate with thecabbage. Let the swallow build in the drawingroom, and the thistle thrust aside the tiles, and thebutterily sun itself on the faded chintz of the armchairs. Let the broken glass and the china lieout on the lawn and be tangled over with grass andwild berries.

For now had come that moment, that hesitation when dawn trembles and night pauses, whenif a feather alight in the scale it will be weigheddown. One feather, and the house, sinking,falling, would have turned and pitched downwardsto the depths of darkness. In the ruined room,picnickers w-ould have lit their kettles; loverssought shelter there, lying on the bare boards;and the shepherd stored his dinner on the bricks,and the tramp slept with his coat round him to i Award og the cold. Then the roof would havefallen; briars and hemlocks would have blottedout path, step, and window; would have grown,unequally but lustily over the mound, until som6trespasser, losing his way, could have told 0nlY214