The old woman's throat moved loosely. Her hands grasped the stout cane.
With a half sigh, she rose to her feet and tottered across the room. "Fool—fool—" she muttered, looking up to the mystical, waiting face. "To leave no mark—no sign—but that!" She shook the yellow papers in her hand.
A question shot into the old eyes. She held out the papers.
"What was it dated, Marie?—that place in the journal—look and see."
The girl took the papers and moved again to the window. She opened one and smoothed it thoughtfully, running her eye along the page. She shook her head slowly. "There is no date, grandmamma," she said. "But it must be after Dürer's death. He speaks of Frau Dürer"—a smile shaded her lips—"he doesn't like her very well, I think. When did Dürer die, grandmamma?" She looked up from the paper.
"April 6, 1528," said the old woman promptly.
The girl's eyes grew round and misty. "Four hundred years ago—almost," she murmured softly. She looked down, a little awed, at the paper in her hand.
"It is very old," she said.
The old woman nodded sharply. Her eyes were on the papers. "Take good care of them," she croaked; "they may tell it to us yet."
She straightened her bent figure and glanced toward the door.