Grey clouds skulked in the sky, playing a cruel game of hide-and-seek with the sun. It was my habit—indeed my delight—to take to the hills after breakfast, and I would have, even in this uncertain weather, had not my uncle returned unexpectedly last night.

“It seems there are affairs at home that require my immediate attention,” he stated, his cold, grey eyes boring into me from under a stern, immovable brow. I lowered my chin. There was no doubt in my mind that word of my solitary walks had reached him. I was his sole ward, and it was his great delight to break me of habits he deemed unsuitable to a female who must marry. With cold silence in my heart, I hung my cloak on the peg again, then took from him my long-neglected needlepoint and walked out of the kitchen.

I sat now by the window which looked out upon the garden, my shawl drawn tight around my shoulders against the autumn dampness, and watched as a solitary spider made its way up the water spout that attached to the house just there. The spider was a tiny creature, an itsy-bitsy thing, as our cook, Dora, would say, and did often say of me (I am determined to break her of this habit.) Said spider persisted in its occupation despite—or perhaps because of—the dark clouds overhead. It moved with ease, each thread-like leg carrying its body with unparalleled grace along the steep, slippery spout. It seemed fixed in its determination, buoyed perhaps by a purpose known only to itself.

Then, without warning, the heavy clouds broke open, letting loose such a deluge as to wash the poor creature down the spout and to the ground where it took refuge under a rock. Puddles gathered around the house, aided by the stream of water rushing through the water spout. It seemed the spider’s purpose had come to naught. I returned to my needlepoint absently: I had discovered long ago that I could guide the needle efficiently, even while my mind spun private fancies of its own.

Moments later, the rain ceased as suddenly as it had started, and I saw the spider, the itsy-bitsy thing, emerge from its shelter. I could only wonder that the poor thing hadn’t drowned as it took to the water spout again. Up, up, up it climbed, those slender filaments unyielding in their footholds. What awaited it at the top, I wondered? Food? Family? Freedom? Why did it persist so in reaching its aim? The cold, grey clouds seemed to conspire against the poor creature, ready to defeat it again at any moment, yet up it climbed.

I put my needlepoint down and watched with renewed interest as the itsy-bitsy spider climbed to a point higher than before, and I found myself silently urging it onward. I cannot say what sentiment overcame me; only that I knew that the spider must reach the top of the spout. I raised my chin toward the obdurate clouds; would that I could stay this heartless force of nature by my will alone. And lo, as if by divine hand, a sympathetic ray of light burst forth through the cold clouds and illuminated the water spout; a solitary thread of hope guiding the darling, itsy-bitsy thing to its aim.

My fingers tightened on the work at hand as my heart quickened. Climb, I entreated fiercely. Oh, climb! Climb! Climb!