Myrtle Reed

A Spinner in the Sun Myrtle Reed

The little house was waiting, as it had waited for many years. Grey and weather-worn, itleaned toward the sheltering hillside as though to gather from the kindly earth somesupport and comfort for old age. Five-and-twenty Winters had broken its spirit, five-andtwenty Springs had not brought back the heart of it, that had once gone out, with dancingfeet and singing, and had returned no more. For a quarter of a century, the garden had lain desolate. Summers came and went, but onlya few straggling blooms made their way above the mass of weeds. In early Autumn, thistlesand milkweed took possession of the place, the mournful purple of their flowering hidingthe 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 ofIndian Summer, itself a ghost, convoyed them about the garden, but they never wentbeyond it. Each year the panoply of purple spread farther, more surely hiding the braveblooms 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, putforth 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. Nofriendly light gleamed at night from the lattice, a beacon to the wayfarer or a message ofcheer to the disheartened, since the little house was alone. The secret spinners had hung adrapery of cobwebs before the desolate windows, as though to veil the loneliness frompassers-by. No fire warmed the solitary hearth, no gay and careless laughter betrayed thesleeping echoes into answer. Within the house were only dreams, which never had cometrue. A bit of sewing yet lay upon the marble-topped table in the sitting-room, and anembroidery frame, holding still a square of fine linen, had fallen from a chair. An open bookwas propped against the back of the chair, and a low rocker, facing it, was swerved sharplyaside. The evidence of daily occupation, suddenly interrupted, was all there-a quietcontent, overlaid by a dumb, creeping paralysi