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TO THE LIGHTHOUSEfrom husband and children and friends; all of whichrising in this profound stillness (she was helpingWilliam Bankes to one very small piece more, andpeered into the depths of the earthenware pot)seemed now for no special reason to stay there likea smoke, like a fume rising upwards, holding themsafe together. Nothing need be said; nothing couldbe said. There it was, all round them. It partook,she felt, carefully helping Mr. Bankes to a speciallytender piece, of eternity; as she had already feltabout something different once before that after-noon; there is a coherence in things, a stability;something, she meant, is immune from change,and shines out (she glanced at the window with itsripple of reflected lights) in the face of the flowing,the fleeting, the spectral, like a ruby; so that againtonight she had the feeling she had had once today,already, of peace, of rest. Of such moments, shethought, the thing is made that endures.

"Yes," she assured William Bankes, "there isplenty for everybody."

"Andrew," she said, "hold your plate lower, orI shall spill it." (The BÅ“uf en Daube was a perfecttriumph.) Here, she felt, putting the spoon down,was the still space that lies about the heart of things,where one could move or rest; could wait now (theywere all helped) listening; could then, like a hawk158