Fru Egholm stole into the little room, where Emanuel’s cradle was set against Hedvig’s bed, lest the master of the house should be disturbed.
Sleeping soundly, the little angel.
“Hedvig dear, you’ve kept your stockings on, haven’t you?”
“Oh, I’m warm enough—just feel here.” She found her mother’s hand and drew it down over some thick woollen stuff, that felt strange to the fingers.
“What—what is it?”
“Look and see!”
Fru Egholm closed the door and struck a match. There lay Hedvig, covered over with a curious black rug with a silver fringe round the edges and a cross in the centre.
For a moment she was dazed, then, calling up some distant memory, she exclaimed in horror:
“Heavens, child! Why, it’s the pall they use for the hearse! Wherever did you get it?”
“It was hanging on the stairs outside,” said Hedvig, with a grin.