entrance of the invigorating influences of the
light breeze from the sea and the odours of the flowers. From his bed he
could see her slim back bent over the fine muslin frills she was
pressing out with such patient precision, and he caught the glint of the
sun on the rich twist of her bronze brown hair. Presently he heard some
one talking to her,--a woman evidently, whose voice was pitched in a
plaintive and almost querulous key.

"Well, Mis' Deane, say 'ow ye will an' what ye will,--there's a spider
this very blessed instant a' crawlin' on the bottom of the ironin'
blanket, which is a sure sign as 'ow yer washin' won't come to no good
try iver so 'ard, for as we all knows--'See a spider at morn, An' ye'll
wish ye wornt born: See a spider at night, An' yer wrongs'll come
right!'"

Mary laughed; and Helmsley listened with a smile on his own lips. She
had such a pretty laugh,--so low and soft and musical.

"Oh, never mind the poor spider, Mrs. Twitt!"--she said--"Let it climb
up the ironing blanket if it likes! I see dozens of spiders 'at morn,'
and I've never in my life wished I wasn't born! Why, if you go out in
the garden early, you're bound to see spiders!"

"That's true--that's Testymen true!" And the individual addressed as
Mrs. Twitt, heaved a profound sigh which was loud enough to flutter
through the open door to Helmsley's ears--"Which, as I sez to Twitt
often, shows as 'ow we shouldn't iver tempt Providence. Spiders there
is, an' spiders there will be 'angin' on boughs an' 'edges, frequent too
in September, but we aint called upon to look at 'em, only when the
devil puts 'em out speshul to catch the hi, an' then they means
mischief. An' that' just what 'as 'appened this present minit, Mis'
Deane,--that spider on yer ironin' blanket 'as caught my hi."

"I'm so sorry!" said Mary, sweetly--"But as long as the spider doesn't
bring _you_ any ill-luck, Mrs. Twitt, I don't mind for myself--I don't,
really!"

Mrs. Twitt emitted an odd sound, much like the grunt of a small and
discontented pig.

"It's a reckless foot as don't mind precipeges,"--she remarked,
solemnly--"'Owsomever, I've given ye fair warnin'. An' 'ow's yer
father's friend?"

"He's much better,--quite out of danger now,"--replied Mary--"He's going
to get up to-day."

"David's 'is name, so I 'ears,"--continued Mrs. Twitt; "I've never
myself knowed anyone called David, but it's a common name in some parts,
speshul in Scripter. Is 'e older than