At supper, which I alone shared with my uncle and the chaplain, I told my uncle that I had spoken to his wife of Master Pernhart, and when he heard that I had even spoken a good word for him, he looked at me as though I had done a right bold deed; yet I could see that he was highly pleased thereat, and the priest, who had sat silent—­as he ever did, gave me a glance of heartfelt thanks and added a few words of praise.  It was long after supper, and my uncle had had his night-draught of wine when my aunt sent the house-keeper to fetch me to her.  Kindly and sweetly, as though she set down my past wrath to a good intent, she bid me sit down by her and then desired that I would repeat to her once more, in every detail, all I could tell her as touching Gotz and Gertrude.  While I did her bidding to the best of my powers she spoke never a word; but when I ended she raised her head and said, as it were in a dream:  “But Gotz!  Did he not forsake father and mother to follow after a fair face?”

Then again I prayed her right earnestly to yield to the emotions of her mother’s heart.  But seeing her fixed gaze into the empty air, and the set pout of her nether lip, I could not doubt that she would never speak the word that would bid him home.

I felt a chill down my back, and was about to rise and leave, but she held me back and once more spoke of Herdegen and that matter.  When she had heard all the tale, she looked troubled:  “I know my Ann,” quoth she.  “When she has once given her promise to the Bookworm all the twelve Apostles would not make her break it, and then she will be doomed to misery, and her fate and your brother’s are both sealed.”

She then went on to ask when the Magister was to return home, and as I told her he was expected on the morrow great trouble came upon her.

It was past midnight or ever I left her, and as it fell I slept but ill and late, insomuch that I was compelled to make good haste, and as it fell that I went to the window I saw the snow whirling in the wind, and behold, in the shed, a great wood-sleigh was being made ready, doubtless for some sick man to be carried to the convent.

I found my aunt in the hall, whither she scarce ever was carried down before noon-day; and instead of her every-day garb—­a loose morning-gown—–­she was apparelled in strange and shapeless raiment, so muffled in kerchiefs and cloaks as to seem no whit like any living woman, much less herself, insomuch that her small thin person was like nothing else than a huge, shapeless, many-coated onion.  Her little face peeped out of the veils and kerchiefs that wrapped her head, like a half-moon out of thick clouds; but her bright eyes shone kindly on me as she cried:  “Come, haste to your breakfast, lie-a-bed!  I thought to find you fitted and ready, and you are keeping the men waiting as though it were an every-day matter that we should travel together.”

“Aye, aye!  She is bent on the journey,” my uncle said with a groan, as he cast a loving glance at his frail wife and raised his folded hands to Heaven.  “Well, chaplain, miracles happen even in our days!” And his Reverence, silent as he was, this time had an answer ready, saying with hearty feeling:  “The loving heart of a brave woman has at all times been able to work miracles.”