e of myself
in them, more sympathy in their joy or sorrow, myself more of an equal
with those around me.

The winter months passed quickly away. Mr. Clarkson frequently showed
his disappointment because the mills no longer produced the wonder of
last year. For me, it had almost passed out of my thoughts. It seemed
but a part of the baser fabric of that vision where Margaret Stuart
reigned supreme. I saw no way to help him; but more and more, daily,
rejoiced in the outer sunshine of the world, in the fresh, glowing
spring, in the flowers of May. So I was surprised again, when, near the
close of May, after a week of stormy weather, the sunlight broke through
the window where it had shone the year before. It hung a moment on the
threads of work,--then, seeming to spurn them, fell upon the ground.

We were weaving, alas! a strange "arabesque pattern," as it was called,
with no special form,--so it seemed to my eyes,--bringing in gorgeous
colors, but set in no shape which Nature ever produced, either above the
earth or in metals or crystals hid far beneath. How I reproached myself,
on Mr. Clarkson's account, that I had not interceded, just for this one
day of sunshine, for some pattern that Nature might be willing to
acknowledge! But the hour was past, I knew it certainly, when the next
day the sun was clouded, and for many days we did not see its
face again.

So the time passed away. Another summer came along, and another glowing
autumn, and that winter I did not go to Boston. Mr. Clarkson let me fall
back again into my commonplace existence. I was no longer more than one
of the common workmen. Perhaps, indeed, he looked upon, me with a
feeling of disappointment, as though a suddenly discovered diamond had
turned to charcoal in his hands. Sometimes he consulted me upon chemical
matters, finding I knew what the books held, but evidently feeling a
little disturbed that I never brought out any hidden knowledge.

This second winter seemed more lonely to me. The star that had shone
upon me seemed farther away than ever. I could see it still. It was
hopelessly distant. My Juno! For a little while I could imagine she was
thinking of me, that my little name might be associated in her memory
with what we had talked of, what we had seen together, with some of the
high things which I knew must never leave her thoughts. But this
glimmering memory of me I knew must have faded away as her life went on,
varied as it was with change of