A Spinner in the Sun

ire wa

ough to gather from the kindly earth some support and comfort for old age. Five-and-twenty Winters had broken its spirit, five-and-t

of the place, the mournful purple of their flowering hiding the garden beneath trappings of woe. And at night, when the Autumn moon shone dimly, frail ghosts of dead flowers were set free from the thistles and

nd quite hiding the ruin of the gate, was a rose-bush, which, every June, put forth one perfect white

er to the disheartened, since the little house was alone. The secret spinners had hung a drapery of cobwebs before the desolate windows, as though to veil the loneliness from pa

en, had fallen from a chair. An open book was propped against the back of the chair, and a low rocker, facing it, was swerved sharply

train rumbled into the station; the midnight train from the city by which the people of Rushton regulated their watches and clocks. Stra

use Life had already done its worst to her, stumbled up the stony, overgrown way. The moon shone fitfully among the flying

o be blown away. Even in the night, she watched furtively and listened for approaching foots

r enter the house again. A light snow had fallen upon the dead garden, covering its scarred

p the path as one might walk, with bared feet, up a ladder of swords. Each step that took her nearer the house hurt her the more

ock yielded at length and the door opened noisily. Her heart surged painfully as she ente

ttling window was answered by a creaking stair, a rafter groaned dis

esently there was light in the little house-a faint glimmering light, which flic

multitudinous folds of her veil to her hair, forgetting that at

d the soul stricken dumb. She had brought with her a box containing a small can

tea. Her well-worn black gown clung closely to her figure, and the white chiffon veil, thrown back, did not wholly hide her abund

h that door. I went out of it, laughing, at twenty. At fo

the thousandth time. "If there had been a

vague harmony. A cricket, safely ensconced for the Winter in a crevice of the hearth, awoke in the unaccu

house-the misery had been outside. Peace and quiet content had

upon the permanence of things usually considered transient and temporary. Her mother's sewing was still upon the marble-topped table, but the hands that held it were long since mingled with the dust. Her own embroidery had apparentl

sustain it further,-then she slept, from sheer weariness. Before dawn, usually, she awoke, sufficiently rested to su

kind. Not having experienced the kindness, she began to doubt the existence of God, and was immediately face to face with the idea that it could not be wrong to die if one was too miserable to live. Her mind r

Evelina took the vial from her reticule and uncorked it. The bitter, pungent odour came as sweet incense to her nostrils. No one knew she had come. No one would ever enter he

his. The lees must be drained from the Cup of Life before the Cup could be set aside. Every one came to this, soone

d her cheeks burned. The hunger for death at her own hands and on her own terms possessed her frai

rd her own voice in more than a monosyllabic answer to some necessary question. Inscrutably veiled in many folds

and slipped it back into her bag. "Tomorrow," s

s. Stray currents of air had come through the crevices of the rattling windows and kept up an imperfect ventilation.

o the floor. Too weak to stand, she made her way on her knees to her bed, leaving the candle in

d. Cobwebs were woven over the lace that trimmed the neck and sleeves. Out of the fe

e said to herself, "I will be brave. For once I will play a part, since to-morrow I shall be free. To-nigh

unearthly sound. The empty rooms took up the echo and made merry wi

was too frail to tear. She laid it on a chair, folding it carefully, then took the dusty bedding from her bed and carried it into the hall,

r in her dresser, hidden beneath a pile of yellowed garments. Her hands, so long nerveless, were alive and sent

musty, but clean, and made her bed. Once or twice, her veil slipped down over her face, and

tgown of sheerest linen, wonderfully stitched by her ow

owed and musty and as frail as a bit of fine lace, but it did not tear in her

and shoulders. Her neck was white and firm, but her right shoulder was deeply, hideo

-pity is the first step toward relief from overpowering sorrow. When deta

e light-it was as lustreless as a field of snow upon a dark day. That done, she stood there, staring at herself

loved, then swiftly learned to hate. Even on the street, closely veiled, she would not look at a shop window, lest

h, but had not been more than slightly ill, upborne, as she was, by a great grief which sustained her as surely as an ascetic is kept alive by the pa

ame. "The fire was kind," she said, stubbornly, as tho

floodgates opened, and for the first time in all the sorrowful years, she felt the hot tears streaming over her face. Her h

bbed Miss Evelina. "Oh,