etered on her toes in the midst of the grass. Naked as a
flower she was, and she smiled up at him.

So he wove for her with the lightest heart you can ever imagine. But,
afterward, she went away in tears, the same as the other had done and as
all Summers do; and Andy picked out a new pine tree and guessed she was
keeping it green.

"Shall I be weaving _this_ lass her shroud?" he had asked again. But
again the Voice had made no answer.

So, naturally, the Summers came and came; and Andy wove and Worked and
clad them. In time he became, as you may well believe, the finest
hand-weaver (of Summer things, I mean) that was on earth in his day.
He became so good at his hand-work that in winter, at the mill, he was
actually clumsy at his machine! So it was just 'tother way round, as you
see, from what it was when he started. He was so clumsy then with his
hands that he thought everything had to be done by machine you remember.
But now he could outdo with his mortal hands anything that was ever done
by machine.

And another queer thing happened to him; he got so he had a totally
different idea of what work was. For his mates down in Glastonbury told
him, "You work only during the winter, don't you?"

Whereas, he found himself answering: "Why, no. 'Tis just the other way
around. I can work only during the summer. I can't work at all during
the winter. I'm dead all winter long--like all the Green Things." Then
his comrades spoke wildly of him and touched their heads. They had
learned the American idea, you see. Andy was crazy and he was lazy; and
he didn't know when he had a good job; and there was no money in
loafing. And all that sort of thing.

Now, I could keep you here all night telling you what all went on with
Summer after Summer, and Summer after Summer, and Summer after Summer;
until Andy grew old and wrinkled and ugly and very sweet in his mind and
cleverer and defter and finer in his finger-weaving. But the main carry
of it all is just as I've been telling you--So we have him coming along,
year after year, loving his little lasses and his blues and greens and
yellows and the way he could put 'em together and make Beauty.

That was the way he lived. And now this is the way he died.

Always, I think I told you, Andy asked the question: "And shall I be
weaving this lass a shroud?"

And never had the Voice answered him.

Well, came one Summer that lived a long, long time and ran and tried to
hide in far places w