that his weight and the clutching of his claws
have broken it. But the strong-rooted pine grows on.

Is Landolin's house such a tree; struck by lightning, and bowed down by
dark sorrow? And will it flourish again?

Thoma stood in the road, and looked around, as though for the first
time she saw that the heavens were blue, and the trees and fields were
green. She had to exert herself to remember for what and where she was
going.

"Oh, yes," sighed she, and started away.

A narrow foot-path led over the hill, down into the valley, to the
city. To be sure she must pass Cushion-Kate's house; but why shouldn't
she? Nevertheless, Thoma, who before had been so strong and brave,
could not overcome a certain terror; as though, like the children in
the fairy-tale, she must pass a frightful dragon, lying in wait for her
at the mouth of his rocky cave.

To be sure Thoma is much stronger than the poor old woman, but, for all
that, it is hard enough to be obliged to conquer the crouching foe.
"Or, may it not be possible to help the poor woman, who must suffer
even more than we do? In the midst of her bitter trouble, may we not
save her the necessity of working for her daily bread?"

Just as I thought! There is Cushion-Kate sitting at the stone
door-sill; both hands pressed to her temples, and her head bent down,
so that the red kerchief almost touches her knee.

Did the poor creature know that this was the day of the trial? She
seemed to be asleep, and Thoma, holding her breath, walked noiselessly
along. But when she had come nearly opposite to her, the old woman
suddenly raised her head. Her eyes glittered, and she called out:

"You! you! To-day is the day of payment."

"May I not say a kind word to you?"

"Kind? To me? You? Go away or----"

She pulled out a pocket-knife, opened it, and cried: "I too, can
murder! You are his child; and he was mine. Go!"

As Thoma turned tremblingly away, the open knife, which the old woman
had thrown at her, fell at her side. She hurried down the hill; and,
until she reached the forest, she could hear loud moans and screams
behind her.

Cushion-Kate had been in the beginning a gay-hearted little woman
enough. A patch-work tailor's daughter, a patch-work tailor's wife, one
could almost say that her life was a patch-work of little gay-colored
scraps like her cushions. She was one of those placid, grateful people
who are thankful for the smallest gift of Providence, and who never
wonde