But for my part I
never thought so, because Spider hadn't got the courage to shorten his own
thread. He was the sort that threaten to do it if they lose a halfpenny;
but they don't perform. I reckoned he'd slipped in the bad light and gone
under with none to save, and fallen in the river and been drowned like
many another spider afore him.
Months passed and Jenny was counted a widow; but though she mourned like
one and wore her black, she never could feel quite sure about her state;
and when Bill Westaway, the miller's son, began to push into her company,
she gave him to understand 'twas far too soon for any thoughts in his
direction. In fact you might say she worshipped her husband's memory as
her most cherished possession, and now he was gone, she never wearied of
his virtues, and wept at the mention of his name. She'd had two years of
him before he went, and there weren't no family and nothing to remind her
of him but her own faithful heart. Never a worthless imp won a better
woman.
And then--after a full year was told--happened the next thing. I well mind
the morning Jenny come over to me, where I was digging a bit of manure
into my garden against seed planting. A March day it was, with a soft mist
on the moor and the plovers crying behind it, like kittens that want their
mother.
"Might I have a tell, Mr. Bates?" she said.
"You might," I answered, "and I'll rest my back and light my pipe while
you do so.
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