see; what did he do?--he wrung his hands and he cried out:

"Look yonder, look yonder! Oh, now I see why the Voice never answered
me when I asked about the shroud! Now I see. I see my presumption, and I
understand the silence--'tis God Himself who weaves the shroud for every
Summer. Look yonder at the snowflakes a-coming down! I can see God's
shuttle weaving in and out amongst them. In and out amongst the years
of snowflakes I can see God's hand, pushing the shuttle and weaving the
shroud that will wrap the Summers and all and all--And I was so bold
with my poor little shroud here, my master-bit of weaving--"

And he broke down and began sobbing and threw himself face down upon the
ground, wiping away at his tears with the wonderful weft he had made.

Then the great Voice came out of the wind and the darkening sky, sturdy
as a great captain's, and shouted aloud through the thick of the flakes:

"_Pray, but regret not, Andy. You did the Work of your Hand!_"

So he died in the snow on the top of that hill, the contented artist
of a perished dream, the master worker in a fabric that immediately
dissolved. What he had told the Voice was true; the triumph he felt as
he handed over to the Summer a bit of his best and she threw it away to
the drifting winds like a bit of dying music--the joy he felt then was
enough to last him till eternity ended. He had heard God's whisper in
his ear; and he never would have heard it if he had stayed in the mill.
He had done what God wanted him to do, a beautiful thing as beautifully
as he knew how--and he felt at last that the beauty of it was somehow
not lost at all.

III

Abruptly the old man left and went out into the snowy night. For there
were tears in his eyes.

IV

The poker game was finished. Pigalle sauntered slowly over to my table.

"You know Handy?" he asked, slowly, in his broken English.

"Who's that?"

"The hole man that ees just go out. 'Is name ees Handy Gor-don." He
rolled his great expressive eyes. "'E's cra-zee man. Also wot you call
loafer: 'e do not work wen 'e wish not to. But, _mon Dieu_, 'ow 'e can
play, that man!" He made a suave, swelling gesture with his hands and
arms and heaved up his great bulk gracefully. "'Ow 'e can play! 'Ow 'e
can _play_!"

"He is Andy Gordon!" I exclaimed. "What is he? A weaver?"

"_Comment_?"

"A weaver? Makes cloth--like this?" I held up the corner of the
tablespread.

"_Corpo_, no!" ejaculated the astonished Pig