THE WINDOWone had for one’s mother at Rose’s age. Like all feel-ings felt for oneself, Mrs. Ramsay thought, it madeone sad. It was so inadequate, what one could give inreturn; and what Rose felt was quite out of propor-tion to anything she actually was. And Rose wouldgrow up; and Rose would suffer, she supposed, withthese deep feelings, and she said she was ready now,and they would go down, and Jasper, because he wasthe gentleman, should give her his arm, and Rose, asshe was the lady, should carry her handkerchief (shegave her the handkerchief), and what else? oh, yes, itmight be cold: a shawl. Choose me a shawl, she said,for that would please Rose, who was bound to sufferso. ‘There,’ she said, stopping by the window on thelanding, ‘there they are again.' Joseph had settled onanother tree-top. ‘Don’t you think they mind,’ shesaid to Jasper, ‘having their wings broken?’ Why didhe want to shoot poor old Joseph and Mary? Heshuffled a little on the stairs, and felt rebuked, butnot seriously, for she did not understand the fun ofshooting birds; that they did not feel; and being hismother she lived away in another division of the world,but he rather liked her stories about Mary and joseph.She made him laugh. But how did she know thatthose were Mary and Joseph? Did she think the samebirds came to the same trees every night? he asked.But here, suddenly, like all grown-up people, sheceased to pay him the least attention. She was listen-ing to a clatter in the hall.
‘They’ve come back!’ she exclaimed, and at onceshe felt much more annoyed with them than relieved.Then she wondered, had it happened?She would go down and they would tell her — but7 - L.97