o the Spider's opinion. She sets to work, next evening, to
put things right. And how? Once more with hanging strings of sand. In
a few nights, the silk bag bristles with a long, thick beard of
stalactites, a curious piece of work, excellently adapted to maintain the
web in an unvaried curve. Even so are the cables of a suspension-bridge
steadied by the weight of the superstructure.

Later, as the Spider goes on feeding, the remains of the victuals are
embedded in the wall, the sand is shaken and gradually drops away and the
home resumes its charnel-house appearance. This brings us to the same
conclusion as before: the Clotho knows her statics; by means of
additional weights, she is able to lower the centre of gravity and thus
to give her dwelling the proper equilibrium and capacity.

Now what does she do in her softly-wadded home? Nothing, that I know of.
With a full stomach, her legs luxuriously stretched over the downy
carpet, she does nothing, thinks of nothing; she listens to the sound of
earth revolving on its axis. It is not sleep, still less is it waking;
it is a middle state where naught prevails save a dreamy consciousness of
well-being. We ourselves, when comfortably in bed, enjoy, just before we
fall asleep, a few moments of bliss, the prelude to cessation of thought
and its train of worries; and those moments are among the sweetest in our
lives. The Clotho seems to know similar moments and to make the most of
them.

If I push open the door of the cabin, invariably I find the Spider lying
motionless, as though in endless meditation. It needs the teasing of a
straw to rouse her from her apathy. It needs the prick of hunger to
bring her out of doors; and, as she is extremely temperate, her
appearances outside are few and far between. During three years of
assiduous observation, in the privacy of my study, I have not once seen
her explore the domain of the wire cage by day. Not until a late hour at
night does she venture forth in quest of victuals; and it is hardly
feasible to follow her on her excursions.

Patience once enabled me to find her, at ten o'clock in the evening,
taking the air on the flat roof of her house, where she was doubtless
waiting for the game to pass. Startled by the light of my candle, the
lover of darkness at once returned indoors, refusing to reveal any of her
secrets. Only, next day, there was one more corpse hanging from the wall
of the cabin, a proof that the chase