in all her sad hours, a woman with a pale and haggard face, and dark,
tear-stained eyes. She had come like a shadow, like a shadow she had gone,
had extended her hands over his mother's head, she knew not whether for
a blessing or for a curse, and had spoken words which had reference to
him--little Paul. In them there was the question of sacrifice and of
redemption; the words he had forgotten again--probably he was too stupid
to understand them. But one thing still remained clearly enough: while he
listened to his mother's words, breathless with terror and expectation,
he suddenly saw the gray figure of whom she spoke, bodily standing at the
door--exactly the same, with her arms uplifted, and her pale, sad face. He
hid his head on his mother's arm; his heart beat, his breath began to fail
him, and, in deadly terror, he screamed out,

"Mamma, there she is, there she is!"

"Who? Dame Care?" asked his mother.

He did not answer, but began to cry.

"Where, then?" continued his mother.

"There, at the door," he replied, raising himself and clutching her round
the neck, for he was dreadfully frightened.

"Oh, you silly little one," said his mother; "that is papa's long
travelling-cloak." And she fetched it, and made him feel the lining and
the stuff, so that he should be thoroughly convinced; and he gave in. But
inwardly he was all the more firmly persuaded that he had seen the gray
woman face to face. And now he also knew what she was called.