‘ It will rain," he remembered his fathersaying. " You won’t be able to go to theLighthouse.’

The Lighthouse was then a silvery, mistylooking tower with a yellow eye that openedsuddenly and softly in the evening. Now

James looked at the Lighthouse. He couldsee the white—washed rocks; the tower, stark andstraight; he could see that it was barred withblack and white; he could see windows in it; hecould even see washing spread on the rocks to dry.So that was the Lighthouse, was it?

No, the other was also the Lighthouse. Fornothing was simply one thing. The other wasthe Lighthouse too. It was sometimes hardly tobe seen across the bay. In the evening onelooked up and saw the eye opening and shuttingand the light seemed to reach them in that airysunny garden where they sat.

But he pulled himself up. Whenever he said‘ they " or “ a person ", and then began hearingthe rustleof some one coming, the tinkle of someone going, he became extremely sensitive to thepresence of whoever might be in the room. Itwas his father now. The strain became acute.For in one moment if there was no breeze,his father would slap the covers of his book together, and say: " What’s happening now? What286

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