Miriam at the same moment let her hands fall, after passing them over her face, as if to clear her thoughts. Seeing the travelers ready to go, she rose and came toward them. She looked at the lady with endless petition in her eyes, and folded her hands as if in prayer to God, but she could not utter a word. The lady's eyes filled with tears as she gazed at the pale grief-stricken face before her. "Can I help you?" she asked. "To Barnow," stammered Miriam. "Can you take me to Barnow?" "Willingly," answered the lady. "We shall be glad to take you--shall we not, Karl?" "Ah, yes," he answered. "And the rabbi!" screamed the two Jewish women. "Are you not going to the rabbi?" "What will the community say?" objected the carrier. "They may say what they like," she answered--"I must go to my child!" She seemed to lose her strength again after this effort, and the gentleman and his servant had almost to carry her to the carriage. They placed her beside the lady, and the forester took the opposite seat. Poor Miriam did not observe this, and did not thank him. "Drive as fast as the horses can go," he said to the coachman, and then she looked at him gratefully. She sat silently beside her newly found friends, only now and then moving restlessly, as if the pace was too slow. The horses went quickly, and it was still daylight when they reached Barnow. The people in the streets stared at the ill-assorted company in the carriage, and put their heads together as to what it could mean. The lady blushed, but her husband shook his head, and said, "What does it matter to us?" When they passed the large figure of the Virgin which stands in a niche of the monastery wall, a sudden thought occurred to him, and he said softly to his wife: "She was called Miriam (Mary), and was a poor Jewish woman, and her heart was torn with grief for her child!" It was dark when they stopped at the door of the little cottage by the graveyard. Miriam sprang quickly out of the carriage. "May God reward you!" she breathlessly ejaculated. "Have you a doctor?" asked the gentleman. "No," she replied; "the doctor is away, passing the recruits." "Then I will send the private physician from the castle to see you," he shouted. Miriam, however, was beyond hearing, as she had hastened into the house. The sick child was alone. A lamp threw its light upon her flushed face, and showed that her skin was covered with moisture. She had only a light sheet thrown over her. Miriam quickly put warm blankets on the bed. "Her skin is moist," she thought joyfully--"that is a sign of recovery." Almost immediately, the gravedigger's wife returned to her charge. She was much surprised to see Miriam, but she did not venture to reproach her for coming back. "The child was in such a heat," was all she said, "that I took off all the blankets." "That was a mistake," answered Miriam; "it is wrong to check perspiration." Then she knelt by the bed, feeling as if all must now go well.