E-text prepared by Al Haines
1906
Contents
A Spinner in the Sun
"The Fire was Kind"
The little house was waiting, as it had waited for many years. Greyand weather-worn, it leaned toward the sheltering hillside as though togather from the kindly earth some support and comfort for old age.Five-and-twenty Winters had broken its spirit, five-and-twenty Springshad not brought back the heart of it, that had once gone out, withdancing feet and singing, and had returned no more.
For a quarter of a century, the garden had lain desolate. Summers cameand went, but only a few straggling blooms made their way above themass of weeds. In early Autumn, thistles and milkweed took possessionof the place, the mournful purple of their flowering hiding the gardenbeneath trappings of woe. And at night, when the Autumn moon shonedimly, frail ghosts of dead flowers were set free from the thistles andmilkweed. The wind of Indian Summer, itself a ghost, convoyed themabout the garden, but they never went beyond it. Each year the panoplyof purple spread farther, more surely hiding the brave blooms beneath.
Far down the path, beside the broken gate, a majestic cypress castportentous gloom. Across from it, and quite hiding the ruin of thegate, was a rose-bush, which, every June, put forth one perfect whiterose. Love had come through the gate and Love had gone out again, butthis one flower was left behind.
Brambles grew about the doorstep, and the hinges of the door were deepin rust. No friendly light gleamed at night from the lattice, a beaconto the wayfarer or a message of cheer to the disheartened, since thelittle house was alone. The secret spinners had hung a drapery ofcobwebs before the desolate windows, as though to veil the lonelinessfrom passers-by. No fire warmed the solitary hearth, no gay andcareless laughter betrayed the sleeping echoes into answer. Within thehouse were only dreams, which never had come true.
A bit of sewing yet lay upon the marble-topped table in thesitting-room, and an embroidery frame, holding still a square of finelinen, had fallen from a chair. An open book was propped against theback of the chair, and a low rocker, facing it, was swerved sharplyaside. The evidence of daily occupation, suddenly interrupted, was allthere—a quiet content, overlaid by a dumb, creeping paralysis.
The March wind blew fiercely through the night and the little houseleaned yet more toward the sheltering hill. Afar, in the village, atrain rumbled into the station; the midnight train from the city bywhich the people of Rushton regulated their watches and clocks.Strangely enough, it stopped, and more than one good man, turninguneasily