“Oh, mother, let me go. I’ve been down as far as the Moselle with berries, and it’s just going a little further; I can find Trier so easy. And if I pray many thousand times to the Sacred Coat, then it will surely help. And when I come back again, then you’re all well. Oh, mother, just think!”
The girl caught the sick woman in her arms with a laugh of joy. She pressed a fresh, blooming cheek to her mother’s pale, hollow face. “Mother, say yes. I’ll go down to pray to the Sacred Coat. I’ll go to-morrow.”
“Anna, let her go, in God’s name, and the Holy Virgin will be with her,” said the visitor. “I’ll come up every day to look after the goat—and to look after you.”
And she took her departure, much touched.
When evening came, Margret milked the goat and got the supper. Then she stood at the well and scrubbed herself as if she had not seen water for a week. The Sacred Coat could indeed demand that one should be clean and bright from head to foot. Then she went into the house and knelt before the picture of the Virgin, which looked down, gay with many colors, from out of its little gold frame on the whitewashed wall. Her prayer was long and heart-felt. It was not only the Paternoster and the Ave that she prayed to-day—her tension, her expectations, and secret anxieties for the coming day brought words of her own in entreaty to her lips.
Then she sank down exhausted on her bed. Her hands folded over her breast, she was soon breathing the deep, regular breath of sweet, youthful sleep.
When she awoke, day was breaking already, and the sun was shaking itself out of its morning dreams behind rose-tipped clouds. It was high time to set out.
Frau Anna wept as she saw her daughter standing before her, fresh and rosy-cheeked, her black Sunday dress pinned up over her blue underskirt, around her slender throat the black cord with a tiny golden cross. In one hand she held the bundle in which was her mother’s shirt, which was to be offered to the Sacred Coat, that the miracle might be performed. Furthermore, there were her shining black shoes and her white stockings, which she was to put on when she reached the city gates. And also there was her godmother’s present, the Sunday apron with its colored flowers, Margret’s fairest possession, her greatest pride. But there was nothing too good for the Sacred Coat.
The bright, young eyes gazed confidently into her mother’s face. “Good-by—and when I come back, then you’ll be well again.”
A clasp of the hand, the sign of the Cross on brow and breast, a murmured blessing, a friendly nod—and now she turned and stood on the threshold, and the first golden rays of the sun kissed her fair, young cheek.