year
fall to the lot of Angus Dhu. It was as well so, Shenac said to herself
with a sigh, for they could not manage much hay by themselves, and
paying wages would never do for them. Indeed, they would need some help
even with the little they had; for Dan had never handled a scythe except
in play, and Hamish, even if he had the skill, had not the strength.

And then the wool. They must have their cloth early this year, for last
year they had been obliged to sell the wool, and the boys' clothes were
threadbare. If they could get the wool spun early, McLean the weaver
would weave their cloth first. She must try to see what could be done.
But, oh, that weary little wheel!

Shenac's mother thought it was a wonderful little wheel; and so indeed
it was. It had been part of the marriage outfit of Shenac's grandmother
before she left her Highland home. It had been in almost constant use
all these years, and bade fair to be as good as ever for as many years
to come. There was no wearing it out or putting it out of order, for,
like most things made in those old times, it had strength if not
elegance, and Shenac's mother was as careful of it as a modern musical
lady is of her grand piano.

I cannot describe it to you, for I am not very well acquainted with such
instruments of labour. It was not at all like the wheels which are used
now-a-days in districts where the great manufactories have not yet put
wheels out of use. It was a small, low, complicated affair, at which
the spinner sat, using both foot and hand. It needed skill and patience
to use it well, and strength too. A long day's work well done on the
little wheel left one far wearier than a day's work in the field.

As for Shenac, the very thought of it made her weary. If she had lived
in the present day, she would have said it made her nervous. But,
happily for Shenac, she did not know that she had any nerves, and her
mother's wheel got the blame of her discomfort. Not that she ever
ventured to speak a disrespectful word of it. The insane idea that
perhaps her mother might be induced to sell it and buy one of the
new-fashioned kind, like that Archie Matheson's young wife had brought
with her, _did_ come into her head once, but she never spoke of it. It
would have been wrong as well as foolish to do so, for her mother would
never try to learn to use the new one, and half the comfort of her life
would be gone without her faithful friend, the little wheel.