'God grant you every happiness, our benefactor!' repeated the poor woman over and over again.
As for Mary, she grew worse and worse. She groaned, her dilated eyes shone with the fire of fever, her lips became parched and black.
'Oh, you little dove, do take the medicine, and you will feel better,' entreated the old woman; but Mary obstinately refused to take any. Seeing the sufferings of the poor girl, the rag-gatherer suddenly clasped her gray head with her hands.
'Oh my God! what am I to do with her? what am I to do with her?' wept she in despair. 'She will die, I am sure, through her own foolishness. How hard it is to see her suffering just because she will not take a little medicine.'
The Cup saw and heard all this, and once more she felt ashamed of having thought herself unhappy for not being as beautiful as formerly.
'Is this misery?' thought she now of her own appearance; 'there is misery indeed!' and the little Cup was herself ready to cry for pity. In the meantime the poor woman dried her tears and approached her sick grandchild.
'Do you know that I have mended the little Cup?' she said.
The face of the little girl brightened, and a faint smile played upon it. 'Let me see it,' lisped she.
The grandmother showed her the little Cup, and Mary's face expressed as much rapture as if she saw some masterpiece of beauty. The poor child had seen during her life so few beautiful things, that the mended Cup with the pretty nosegay on her transported her with delight.
'And wouldn't you take the medicine out of the Cup?' asked the old woman, in an uncertain, coaxing tone of voice.