reathes it forth.

[Sidenote: Toiling in the Vineyard]

While he worked in the vineyard it was consciously for her. For her sake
he aspired to make the best of himself; to make this hillside yield its
purple banners from the secret storehouses within. So he had struggled
with soil and season, with suns that scorched and winds that chilled,
with parching days that opened the earth in great crevices, and with
torrents that made the paths between the vines impassable for days.

From the wide windows that overlooked the valley, Madame watched the
vineyard with an anxious heart. She, too, had toiled as far as a woman
might, in the years that elapsed between the death of her husband and
the maturity of her son. Sometimes all the powers and purposes of Nature
had apparently been arrayed against her, and, again, as at the touch of
a magic wand, the earth had yielded up its fruit.

Yet she had never lost her courage. Knowing that the logical strength of
position lies nearly always with the pursuer, she would never own
herself beaten, though there was a time of terror when the crop failed
for three successive years.

Now the tapestry lay before her, well on its way to completion. She had
watched the great web spread upon the hillside, year by year, from snow
to snow again. Surrounding it on three sides, like the frame upon which
it was stretched, were the stalwart pines that protected it from the icy
winds. Below, like a silver ribbon, the river irregularly bounded it, a
shining line of demarcation between the valley and the opposite hills.

[Sidenote: The Coming of Spring]

When the snows were deep, there were only gentle undulations to mark the
covered vines. Even the pines bent low with it, as though hoary with
their weight of years. When the snows melted, tiny crystal rivulets ran
down the tapestry, into the silver ribbon that was stretched across the
foot, and upon a neutral background of earth the black, tangled threads
showed dimly.

In a night, almost, there would come a change. Where the threads had
lain hopelessly matted, appeared some semblance of order, as though the
Weaver had come. Then, as they became separate groups, a faint glow of
green dawned above them, not so much colour as the promise of colour,
not so much design as the planning of it.

Through and through the web, like the Weaver's shuttle, figures moved
from one tangle of threads to another, setting all straight as they
went. Swiftly then the co