Years had passed since then; the fresh grave had fallen in and grass had grown over it, as over the wounds of the heart. The little hut had grown more dilapidated, and little Margret had become a tall girl. She sat by the door spinning for her daily bread in the service of the rich peasants’ wives, and had the goat tied to her foot by a string, so that she could care for it without stopping her work. Margret spun and spun, looking up occasionally, aimlessly, or in unconscious longing, at the sky above her, which domed pale blue and unapproachably cool over the bare, rocky hilltops. [Illustration: =Clara Viebig=] Her mother was very ill. For weeks and months she had lain bent and stiff, drawn with rheumatic pains, in the worm-eaten bed on her coarse pillows, too helpless sometimes even to raise her hand to her mouth. “It looks bad,” the wise woman from Kyllburg had said, when after much entreaty and a payment of fifty pfennigs (twelve and a half cents) down she had been persuaded to climb up to the miserable hut. She took away with her the widow’s one hen, and left a magic medicine in its place. But the medicine did no magic, the sick woman groaned and moaned more than ever, and the screech owl, the bird of death, screamed each midnight outside the window. This was a particularly bad day. Pretty Margret sat by the bedside with drooping head. Her busy fingers continued to spin, but her usually laughing brown eyes were filled with tears. She was a good child, who had nothing in all the world but her mother and her seventeen years. But her fresh youth was blighted by the sorrow for her mother as the flowers in May are smitten by hail. It was a little brightening of the sadness when a knock came on the door and a fat peasant woman pushed herself over the threshold with sighs and pantings. “Praise be Jesus Christ.” “Forever and ever, amen.” The visitor was a cousin from Kyllburg, Frau Margareta Rindsfüsser, Margret’s godmother. She had climbed up the mountain to see them, the good, kind soul, even if she was a little too comfortably complete. She unpacked a basket she carried on her arm: there was sausage in it, rolls, chicory, and eggs. “Well, Anna, how are the pains?” “Bad, very bad.” “Yes, yes,” the visitor nodded, “I don’t believe myself that you’ll be with us long. You’d better be making ready for the blessed death.” “O dear Lord Jesus,” moaned the sick woman, “I’d be so glad to die--but it’s leaving Margret, and she so young.” “Yes, it’s true.” The visitor blinked her eyes and blew her nose violently in her gay-colored handkerchief. “It’s bitter hard, but there’s no help. Yet, if you could get down to Trier to see the Sacred Coat, that could help you.” “Help her? The Sacred Coat?” Margret had been listening with wide, open eyes; now she approached and touched the visitor’s sleeve. “Auntie, please tell me, what is the Sacred Coat?”