were a dream. Why
couldn't I find you before, great-great-grandmother?'

'That you are hardly old enough to understand. But you would have
found me sooner if you hadn't come to think I was a dream. I will give
you one reason though why you couldn't find me. I didn't want you to
find me.'

'Why, please?'

'Because I did not want Lootie to know I was here.'

'But you told me to tell Lootie.'

'Yes. But I knew Lootie would not believe you. If she were to see me
sitting spinning here, she wouldn't believe me, either.'

'Why?'

'Because she couldn't. She would rub her eyes, and go away and say she
felt queer, and forget half of it and more, and then say it had been
all a dream.'

'Just like me,' said Irene, feeling very much ashamed of herself.

'Yes, a good deal like you, but not just like you; for you've come
again; and Lootie wouldn't have come again. She would have said, No,
no--she had had enough of such nonsense.'

'Is it naughty of Lootie, then?'

'It would be naughty of you. I've never done anything for Lootie.'

'And you did wash my face and hands for me,' said Irene, beginning to
cry.

The old lady smiled a sweet smile and said:

'I'm not vexed with you, my child--nor with Lootie either. But I don't
want you to say anything more to Lootie about me. If she should ask
you, you must just be silent. But I do not think she will ask you.'

All the time they talked the old lady kept on spinning.

'You haven't told me yet what I am spinning,' she said.

'Because I don't know. It's very pretty stuff.'

It was indeed very pretty stuff. There was a good bunch of it on the
distaff attached to the spinning-wheel, and in the moonlight it shone
like--what shall I say it was like? It was not white enough for
silver--yes, it was like silver, but shone grey rather than white, and
glittered only a little. And the thread the old lady drew out from it
was so fine that Irene could hardly see it. 'I am spinning this for
you, my child.'

'For me! What am I to do with it, please?'

'I will tell you by and by. But first I will tell you what it is. It
is spider-web--of a particular kind. My pigeons bring it me from over
the great sea. There is only one forest where the spiders live who
make this particular kind--the finest and strongest of any. I have
nearly finished my present job. What is on the rock now will be
enough. I have a week's work there yet, though,' she added, looking at
the bun