The stone is too hard for her."
"I will not go away; I want the fire," murmured the sick girl,
holding out her hands towards it, and shivering.
Christina quickly took off her own thick cloth mantle, well lined
with dressed lambskins, laid it on the floor, rolled the collar of it
over a small log of wood--the only substitute she could see for a
pillow--and showed an inviting couch in an instant. Ermentrude let
her brother lay her down, and then was covered with the ample fold.
She smiled as she turned up her thin, wasted face, faded into the
same whitey-brown tint as her hair. "That is good," she said, but
without thanks; and, feeling the soft lambswool: "Is that what you
burgher-women wear? Father is to give me a furred mantle, if only
some court dame would pass the Debateable Ford. But the
Schlangenwaldern got the last before ever we could get down. Jobst
was so stupid. He did not give us warning in time; but he is to be
hanged next time if he does not."
Christina's blood curdled as she heard this speech in a weak little
complaining tone, that otherwise put her sadly in mind of Barbara
Schmidt's little sister, who had pined and wasted to death.
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