ed shreds of a spider's web. She sat in a bunch and never smiled.
Something about her suggested a spider. Her Tamil name is Chrysanthemum,
which by the change of one letter becomes Spider. So we called her
Spider.

At first we were not anxious about her; for such little children pick
up quickly if they are healthy to begin with, as we believed she was.
But she did not respond to the good food and care, and only grew thinner
and more miserable as the weeks passed, till she looked like the first
picture in a series of advertisements of some marvellous patent food,
and we wondered if she would ever grow like the fat and flourishing last
baby of the series. For two months this state of things continued; she
grew more wizened every day; and the uncanny spider-limbs and attitude
gave her the air of not being a human baby at all, but a terrible little
specimen which ought not to be on view but should be hidden safely away
in some private medical place--on a shelf in a bottle of spirits of
wine.

We are asked sometimes if such tiny things can suffer other than
physically. We have reason to think they can. As all else failed, we
took a little girl from school for whom the Spider had an affection, and
let her love her all day long; and almost at once there was a change in
the sad little face of the Spider. She had been cared for by an old
grandfather after her mother's death, and it seemed as if she had
fretted for him and needed someone all to herself to make up for what
she was missing.

This little girl, the Cod-fish by name, was devoted to the Spider. She
nestled her and played with her--or attempted to, I should say, for at
first the Spider almost resented any attempts to play. "She doesn't know
how to smile!" said the Cod-fish disconsolately after a week's petting
and loving had resulted only in fewer whimpers, but not as yet in
smiles. A few days later she came to us, and announced with much
emotion: "She has smiled three times!" Next day the record rose to
seven; after that we left off counting.

The Spider is fat and bonnie now. Her skin is a clear and creamy brown,
and her hair has lost its dustiness; but she still likes to sit crumpled
up, and a small alcove in the kitchen is her favourite haven when tired
of the world. Seen unexpectedly in there, bunched in a tight knot, her
dark, keen little eyes peering out of the light-coloured little face,
she still suggests a spider. But it is a cheerful Spider, which makes