TIME PASSESevening, one after another the sounds die out,and the harmony falters, and silence falls. Withthe sunset sharpness was lost, and like mist rising,quiet rose, quiet spread, the wind settled; looselythe world shook itself down to sleep, darkly herewithout a light to it, save what came green suifusedthrough leaves, or pale on the white flowers bythe window.

[Lily Briscoe had her bag carried up to thehouse late one evening in September. Mr.Carmichael came by the same train.]IO

Then indeed peace had come. Messages ofpeace breathed from the sea to the shore. Neverto break its sleep any more, to lull it rather moredeeply to rest and whatever the dreamers dreamtholily, dreamt wisely, to con{·irm—what else wasit murmuring—as Lily Briscoe laid her head onthe pillow in the clean still room and heard the sea.Through the open window the voice of the beautyof the world came murmuring, too softly to hearexactly what it said—but what mattered if themeaning were plain?—entreating the sleepers (theouse was full again; Mrs. Beckwith was stayinghere, also Mr. Carmichael), if they would notctually come down to the beach itself at least to lift219

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