“Roll it up in a ball and throw it in the brook,” said Mittie, “she’ll think some of her witches have carried it off. I’ll pay her for it,” she added, with a scornful laugh, “if she finds us out and makes a fuss. It can’t be worth more than a dollar—and I would give twice as much as that any time to spite the old thing.”
So they wound up the dirty, tangled, ruined thread into a great ball, and plunged it into the stream that had so often laved the whitening filaments. Had Miss Thusa seen it sinking into the blue, sunny water, she would have felt as the mariner does when the corpse of a loved companion is let down into the burying wave.
In a few moments the gate was shut, the green slope smiled in answer to the mellow smile of the setting sun, the yellow birds frightened away by the noisy groups, flew back to their nests, among the fragrant lilacs, and the stream gurgled as calmly as if no costly wreck lay within its bosom.
When the last beam of the sinking sun glanced upon her distaff, turning the fibres to golden filaments, Miss Thusa paused, and the crank gave a sudden, upward jerk, as if rejoiced at the coming rest. Putting her wheel carefully in its accustomed corner, she descended the stairs, and bent her steps to the bleaching ground. She met Helen at the gate, who remembered the trysting hour.
“Bless the child,” cried Miss Thusa, with a benevolent relaxation of her harsh features, “she never forgets any thing that’s to do for another. Never mind getting the watering-pot now. There’ll be a plenty of dew falling.”
Taking Helen by the hand she crossed the rustic bridge; but as she approached the green, she slackened her pace and drew her spectacles over her eyes. Then taking them off and rubbing them with her silk handkerchief, she put them on again and stood still, stooping forward, and gazing like one bewildered.
“Where is the thread, Miss Thusa?” exclaimed Helen, running before her, and springing on the slope. “When did you take it away?”
“Take it away!” cried she. “Take it away! I never did take it away. But somebody has taken it—stolen it, carried it off, every skein of it—not a piece left the length of my finger, my finger nail. The vile thieves!—all my winter’s labor—six long months’ work—dead and buried! for all me—”
“Poor Miss Thusa!” said Helen, in a pitying accent. She was afraid to say more—there was something so awe-inspiring in the mingled wrath and grief of Miss Thusa’s countenance.
“What’s the matter?” cried a spirited voice. Louis appeared on the bridge, swinging his hat in the air, his short, thick curls waving in the breeze.