faces, sounds of music, and whirl of
excitement. Then, too, I never heard her name mentioned. She was out of
my circle, as far away from my sphere as the heroines of those old
romances that I had read so long ago; but more life-like, more warm,
more sunny was her influence still. It uplifted my work, and crowned my
leisure with joy. I blessed the happy sunshine of that 27th of May,
which in a strange way had been the clue that led to my knowledge
of her.

The longest winter-months melt away at last into spring, and so did
these. May came with her promises and blights of promise. Recalling,
this time, how sunshine would come with the latter end of May through
the dark walls, I begged of Mr. Clarkson that a favorite pattern of mine
might be put upon the looms. Its design was imagined by one of my
companions in my later walks. He was an artist of the mills, and had
been trying to bring within the rigid lines that were required some of
the grace and freedom of Nature. He had scattered here some water-lilies
among broad green leaves. My admiration for Nature, alas! had grown only
after severe cultivation among the strange forms which we carpet-makers
indulge in with a sort of mimicry of Nature. So I cannot be a fair judge
of this, even as a work of art. I see sometimes tapestries in a meadow
studded with buttercups, and I fancy patterns for carpets when I see a
leaf casting its shadow upon a stone. So I may be forgiven for saying
that these water-lilies were dear to me as seeming like Nature, as they
were lying upon their green leaves.

Mr. Clarkson granted my request, and for a few days, this pattern was
woven by the machine. These trial-days I was excited from my usual
calmness. The first day the sunshine did not reach the narrow window.
The second day we had heavy storm and rain. But the third day, not far
from the expected hour, the sunshine burst through the little space. It
fell upon my golden threads; it seemed directly to embrace them
joyously, to encircle them closely. The sunlight seemed to incorporate
itself with the woolly fibre, to conceal itself among the work where the
shuttle chose to hide it. I fancied a sort of laughing joy, a clatter
and dash in the machinery itself, as though there were a happy time,
where was usually only a monotonous whirl. I could scarcely contain
myself till noon.

When I left my room, I found, on inquiry, that Mr. Clarkson was not in
the building, and was to be away all day. I we