For some time before leaving the room in the tavern she had turned the coins restlessly over and over under her kerchief, and meanwhile, as if in a dream, made but evasive answers to the questions and demands of Cyriax and Gitta.

Then she glided nearer to the gentlemen at the table, intending to return Lienhard’s gift; but the landlord of The Pike followed her suspiciously, and drove her back to her companions.

Thence she had been called to the sick woman and went out of doors.  She found the mother of the twins in the meadow by the Main and eagerly devoted herself to them.

The widow’s burning head and gasping breath were no favourable symptoms.  She herself felt that her end was approaching.  Her tongue was parched.  The water in the jug was warm and flat, yet she longed for a cool drink.  During the day Kuni had noticed a well in the kitchen garden, and, in spite of her aching foot, hastened to it at once to draw the cool water.  While doing so, the red and white pinks which she had noticed at noon again caught her eye in the starlight night.  The sick woman could enjoy their fragrance now, and to-morrow, feast her eyes upon their bright colours.

From childhood she had always been fond of flowers.  Stealing was prohibited by her father as wicked and dangerous, and she had never transgressed his commands.  When she picked up the costly rosary in Nuremberg, she had intended to return it to the owner.  But to pluck the flowers and fruit which the Lord caused to grow and ripen for every one was a different thing, and had never troubled her conscience.  So she carelessly gathered a few pinks.  Three should go to the sick woman, but Lienhard Groland would have the largest and finest.  She would try to slip the flowers into his hand, with the money, as a token of her gratitude.  But even while saying to herself that these blossoms should be her last greeting to him, she felt the red spots burning more hotly on her cheeks.  Ah, if only he would accept the pinks!  Then the most cruel things might happen, she could bear them.

While kneeling before the bed, the waiter, Dietel, noticed her.  As she saw him also, she hurried back to the suffering mother as fast as her lame limb would carry her, and raised the jug of fresh water to her parched lips.

This had been a delicious refreshment to the sick woman, and when Kuni saw how much comfort her little service afforded the invalid, her heart grew lighter.  Had it been possible she, who was of no importance to any one, would willingly have lain down on the heap of straw in the place of the mother upon whom two young lives depended.

How delightful it was to bring aid!  And she possessed the means of being helpful.