So it was no great marvel to me, when one day, not long after my first appearance at the windowsill, I saw the poor woman come into the room with a very faltering step, and a whiter, sicklier look on her wan face than was usual to it.  She threw herself wearily down upon her bed in the corner, and panted for breath.  She had been to the town to take thither the last piece of needlework she had done, and she laid on the wooden table by the bedside the money the people had given her for her labor.  Hard-earned coins, and few of them!  She put her thin, wasted hands to her head as she lay, and I heard her murmur to herself in broken words that seemed interspersed with half suppressed sobs, and I could not understand what she said.  But by-and-by, when she had grown a little calmer,—­ there was a sharp, swift tap at the door of the room, and the boy entered, with a small book in his hand, and a sparkle of pleasure in his eyes.

“Look, mother!” he cried, holding up the volume gleefully; “this is one of the great German Professor’s ‘Treatises on Chemistry!’ Herr Ritter has bought it for me!  Isn’t it good of him?  And he is here, and wants to know if he may come and see you!”

She smiled,—­such a poor ghost of a smile as it was!—­and answered feebly, “Let him come; ’Tista.”  But I suppose the Herr had heard even that broken message, for at the words the door was pushed open a little further, and an old man appeared, bare-headed, wearing a long white beard, and carrying a staff in his hand.  He was bent with age, and his forehead and cheeks were marked about with many lines and crosses,—­deep furrows ploughed by the harrow of thought and sorrow.  I had often seen him before, for he came frequently to the cottage, but I had never been so close to him as on this occasion, and had never before noticed how poor and worn his garments were.  He came into the room with a courteous greeting on his lips, half-Italian, half-German in its phraseology, and signed with a nod of his head to the boy Battista to be gone, who immediately obeyed, hugging his prize, and closed the door softly behind him.

“Herr Ritter,” said the woman, raising herself on the pillow, and putting both her hands into his; “you are too good to, my ’Tista, and too good to me.  Why will you do these things?”

He smiled, as though the matter were not worth a word; but she went on,—­

“I say you are too good, dear friend.  Never a day passes, but you bring me something,—­wine or fruit or some piece of dainty fare; and as for ’Tista, there is nothing he does not owe to you!  All he knows, you have taught him.  We can never repay you.”

“My dear Frau ’Lora, who thinks of such things twice?  Chut!  But you look ill and over-tired this evening.  You have been to the town again?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.  You must lie here and rest now.  It will get cooler by-and-by; and look, I have brought you some bunches of grapes and some peaches.  They will do you good.”