82 



draught it may be, or one that shall work 

 harm. 



Only the wise woman knows. Her face 

 is a mask tawny, inscrutable. Good she 

 hath wrought beyond question. Ill, too, it 

 may be -life hath a curious woof, more 

 curious even than the gay threads flashing 

 out from her darting shuttles. The sun 

 sinks low ; birds set up a sleepy chirp. She 

 drops batten and treadle, to go out among 

 the flowers. A last look shows her stand- 

 ing at ease, sun-rays gilding her bare gray 

 head, with the good green leaves behind, 

 the garden as a lush carpet unrolled at her 

 feet. 



