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*B1
*C1

*X51
In the days when the spinning-wheels hummed busily in the
farmhouses - and even great ladies, clothed in silk and
thread lace, had their toy spinning-wheels of polished oak -
there might be seen in districts far away among the lanes,
or deep in the bosom of the hills, certain pallid undersized
men, who, by the side of the brawny country-folk, looked
like the remnants of a disinherited race.  The shepherd's dog
barked fiercely when one of these alien-looking men
appeared on the upland, dark against the early winter sunset;
for what dog likes a figure bent under a heavy bag? -
and these pale men rarely stirred abroad without that
mysterious burden.  The shepherd himself, though he had
good reason to believe that the bag held nothing but flaxen
thread, or else the long rolls of strong linen spun from
that thread, was not quite sure that this trade of weaving,
indispensable though it was, could be carried on entirely
without the help of the Evil One.  In that far-off time sup . . .