Graffam remembered well who
wove it; and a pleasant vision came along with that white table-cloth.
He saw his mother, as in olden times, weaving; while he stood by her
side, wondering at the skill with which she sent the shuttle through
its wiry arch, and noticing how the little matter of adding thread to
thread filled the "cloth beam" little by little, until the long "web"
was done. "Such is life," thought Graffam; "the little by little of
human action goes to fill up the warp of time, and decides the worth of
what we manufacture for eternity." Then he looked sadly over his own
work, and could but say to himself, "It is all loose ends, loose ends.
What a web for eternity!"
"Supper is ready," said Mrs. Graffam, and the poor man turned toward
the table. The white loaf was there, and a basin of the berries his
little ones had picked from the plain. In a solitary cup (for it was
the only one saved from their wreck of crockery) Graffam saw his tea,
and offered to exchange with his wife for the broken mug, into which
was poured a scanty portion for herself.
"No, thank you," said she, "this is very well;" and they were seated at
the table.
It was upon the whole a cheerful meal. It seemed as though each one had
been a long journey, and had just returned; they were pleased with each
other, and talked of old acquaintances, and other days, themes upon
which they had held no converse for a long, long time past.
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