"Ah, yes—the story—you're in the mood to listen?"
"Yes, yes. Is it to be one of your adventures?"
"Not exactly. I'm not in the mood to relate an adventure. That will keep for another time. This is a charmed spot, you see—as its name would denote—a spell has been laid on me, in the shadow of this rock, and I am obliged to speak the words that come into my head."
"Then I won't consider you responsible."
"No—not here." Lord Canning folded his arms and gazed down into the impenetrable depths. "There was once a weaver. He wove a dull, gray woof—always the same gray woof. Sometimes, he would look up at the rich blue of the morning sky, then go on weaving his gray web. Sometimes, he would glance at the sunset, and marvel at the gorgeous hues of the clouds—but there was never a gleam of color in the web, that he wove—it was always the same, dull gray. Sometimes, the laughing face of a child would peep into his—and he would gaze longingly back—yearning to snatch the blue of the eyes, the gold of the hair—for that colorless web which Fate had set him to weave. Once he dreamed that a sudden burst of sunlight streamed upon him, as he sat at his loom. He put up his hand and drew down the rays one after the other, weaving them into his work. And as he wove, he heard singing—a choir of beautiful, jubilant voices. The web, transformed into a gleaming fabric of light, gladdened the soul of the weaver. Then he awoke, and saw the dull, gray woof in the loom. He went on, patiently weaving the web which Fate had given him. But his soul cherishes the hope—that some day, perhaps, his dream will come true."
CHAPTER VIII.
The World's Rest
Indiana lay back with closed eyes. Lord Canning's deep, well-modulated voice, soothing her alert faculties into a dream of consciousness. He looked at her as he concluded. The innocence of her face, with its closed eyelids, appealed to him. She looked very childish, lying at the foot of the giant rock. Without any comment, she looked out on the lake. He lit a cigar and smoked it in silence. Both were thinking of the weaver.
"Did you feel that icy breath from the rock, Miss Stillwater?"
Indiana laughed. "We come for that on hot days, and lie in the shade and read. It's always cool here."