A Spinner in the Sun

A Spinner in the Sun

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Title: A Spinner in the Sun
Author: Myrtle Reed
Release Date: June 21, 2004 [eBook #12672]
Language: English
Character set encoding: US-ASCII
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SPINNER
IN THE SUN***
E-text prepared by Al Haines

A SPINNER IN THE SUN
BY
MYRTLE REED
1906

Contents
I. "THE FIRE WAS KIND" II. MISS MEHITABLE III. THE PEARLS
IV. "FROM THE DEPTHS OF HIS LOVE" V. ARAMINTA VI.
PIPES O' PAN VII. THE HONOUR OF THE SPOKEN WORD VIII.
PIPER TOM IX. HOUSECLEANING X. RALPH'S FIRST CASE XI.
THE LOOSE LINK XII. A GREY KITTEN XIII. THE RIVER
COMES INTO ITS OWN XIV. A LITTLE HOUR OF TRIUMPH XV.
THE STATE OF ARAMINTA'S SOUL XVI. THE MARCH OF THE
DAYS XVII. LOVED BY A DOG XVIII. UNDINE XIX. IN THE
SHADOW OF THE CYPRESS XX. THE SECRET OF THE VEIL

XXI. THE POPPIES CLAIM THEIR OWN XXII. FORGIVENESS
XXIII. UNDINE FINDS HER SOUL XXIV. TELLING AUNT HITTY
XXV. REDEEMED XXVI. THE LIFTING OF THE VEIL

A Spinner in the Sun

I
"The Fire was Kind"
The little house was waiting, as it had waited for many years. Grey and
weather-worn, it leaned toward the sheltering hillside as though to
gather from the kindly earth some support and comfort for old age.
Five-and-twenty Winters had broken its spirit, five-and-twenty Springs
had not brought back the heart of it, that had once gone out, with
dancing feet and singing, and had returned no more.
For a quarter of a century, the garden had lain desolate. Summers came
and went, but only a few straggling blooms made their way above the
mass of weeds. In early Autumn, thistles and milkweed took possession
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
milkweed. The wind of Indian Summer, itself a ghost, convoyed them
about the garden, but they never went beyond it. Each year the panoply
of purple spread farther, more surely hiding the brave blooms beneath.
Far down the path, beside the broken gate, a majestic cypress cast
portentous gloom. Across from it, and quite hiding the ruin of the gate,
was a rose-bush, which, every June, put forth one perfect white rose.
Love had come through the gate and Love had gone out again, but this
one flower was left behind.
Brambles grew about the doorstep, and the hinges of the door were
deep in rust. No friendly light gleamed at night from the lattice, a
beacon to the wayfarer or a message of cheer 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 passers-by. No fire warmed the solitary hearth, no gay and
careless laughter betrayed the sleeping echoes into answer. Within the
house were only dreams, which never had come true.
A bit of sewing yet lay upon the marble-topped table in the

sitting-room, and an embroidery frame, holding still a square of fine
linen, 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
aside. The evidence of daily occupation, suddenly interrupted, was all
there--a quiet content, overlaid by a dumb, creeping paralysis.
The March wind blew fiercely through the night and the little house
leaned yet more toward the sheltering hill. Afar, in the village, a train
rumbled into the station; the midnight train from the city by which the
people of Rushton regulated their watches and clocks. Strangely
enough, it stopped, and more than one good man, turning uneasily upon
his pillow, wondered if the world might have come to its end.
Half an hour afterward, a lone figure ascended the steep road which led
to the house. A woman, fearless of the night, because Life had already
done its worst to her, stumbled up the stony, overgrown way. The
moon shone fitfully among the flying clouds, and she guided herself by
its uncertain gleams, pausing now and then, in complete darkness, to
wait for more light.
Ghost-like, a long white chiffon veil trailed behind her, too securely
fastened to her hat to be blown away. Even in the night, she watched
furtively and listened for approaching footsteps,