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"It's a very good attic, and it's stuffed full of old things. There's a fender and two pairs of fire-dogs " Mrs. Joy's eyes sparkled. "Oh, do let us go up and see it!" she cried. "No, you don't!" said Miss Colishaw, taking a firmer grasp of the baluster. "There's a wool-wheel, and a flax-wheel, and a winder, and three warming-pans " "Dear me! What a delightful place!" put in Mrs. Joy.

Evelina got up presently, and shifted the position of the spinning-wheels, placing the flax-wheel where the large wheel had been. She then pushed out the table from the corner. "What ailed her ter sot it hyar?" she grumbled, in a disaffected undertone, and shoved it to the centre of the floor, where it had always stood during her own sway.

I'm sick, and she's here, and I won't get well in a hurry." How well I remember her, sitting by the flax-wheel, spinning, even the pepper and salt homespun dress, the blue and white checked apron, the little shoes with the silver buckles, and the glimpse of gray stocking. "Will you please tell me your name?" "Ruth. Ruth Elliot." "Ruth? That's the sweetest name of all. It suits you too.

Long, burnished white lines lay upon its gleaming surface, and looking back Demeré could see beyond the shadow and sheen of the sloping bank the cleared space, where the moonbeams fell in unbroken splendor before the stockade, and through its open gate the log-cabin with its primitive porch, where, young and beautiful, she sat in her white dress in the bright light beside the silent little flax-wheel.

There was the old loom, with its harnesses, its reed, and its shuttles; the flax-wheel and the distaff, forming a quaint setting, but representing a past age and the primitive habits of the people who used them. There was Hanz and Angeline on one side. Time was writing its record in deep lines on their faces, and whitening their gray hairs.

She got me some broth, and after I had drunk it brought a flax-wheel and sat down by it. I was sick and weak, but the joy of Michael Wigglesworth's saints in heaven was nothing compared to mine. That is, until the dreadful thought occurred that she might have been already sought and won by some one else. But I said: "Keep your courage up, Ben. She isn't over seventeen.

An' the linen that's in the house! I've no need to turn a hand to the flax-wheel for ten years if I've no mind. An' ye can all bide your times, an' see what John'll make o' the farm, now he's got where he can have things his own way. His father was always set against anything that was new, an' the place is run down shameful; but John'll bring it up, an' I'm not an old woman yet."

It was here, too, that Angeline, the spirit of whose sweet face had been with him in his wanderings, used to sit at her flax-wheel, spinning thread that was famous in Fly Market. Could this be a sweet dream, a beautiful delusion, a spirit-spell that moves the soul with pictures of love and enchantment, and from which some stern reality would soon awake him and dispel the charm?

It was a favorite pastime with my grandmother, when the morning's work was done, to uncover her flax-wheel, seat herself, and call me to sit by her, and, after my childish manner, read to her from the "Life of General Francis Marion," by Mason L. Weems, the graphic account of the general's exploits, by the venerable parson.

Richard Mivane's attention had been diverted from the thread of his own reminiscences by the fact that the little flax-wheel of Peninnah Penelope Anne had ceased to whirl, and the low musical monody of its whir that was wont to bear a pleasant accompaniment to the burden of his thoughts was suddenly silent.