This phrase struck curiously on his ears. "Do without her altogether!" That would be strange indeed--almost impossible! It was quite early in the morning when she thus spoke--about seven o'clock,--and he was not to get up till noon, "when the air was at its warmest," said Mary--so he lay very quietly, thinking over every detail of the position in which he found himself. He was now perfectly aware that it was a position which opened up great possibilities. His dream,--the vague indefinable longing which possessed him for love--pure, disinterested, unselfish love,--seemed on the verge of coming true. Yet he would not allow himself to hope too much,--he preferred to look on the darker side of probable disillusion. Meanwhile, he was conscious of a sweetness and comfort in his life such as he had never yet experienced. His thoughts dwelt with secret pleasure on the open frankness and calm beauty of the face that had bent over him with the watchfulness of a guardian angel through so many days and nights of pain, delirium, and dread of death,--and he noted with critically observant eyes the noiseless graceful movement of this humbly-born woman, whose instincts were so delicate and tender, whose voice was so gentle, and whose whole bearing expressed such unaffected dignity and purity of mind. On this particular morning she was busy ironing;--and she had left the door open between his bedroom and the kitchen, so that he might benefit by the inflow of fresh air from the garden, the cottage door itself being likewise thrown back to allow a full 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!"