“‘It was not long after that that I sat hour after hour by your cradle, composing a lullaby which should be altogether your own, and as worthy of you as I could make it. When the words and the music were complete and satisfying to my soul, I began singing the little song to you, and your father, whose love of music was intense, seemed entranced with it. He would beg me often to sing it, and to play the violin accompaniment I had composed to go with it. I would never do so except over your cradle. Understand me, child, if you can understand one of so wayward a temper as mine. I had put all my soul into that lullaby. Every word in it, every note of the music, was an expression of my mother love--the best there was in me. I was jealous of it for you. I would not allow even your father to hear a note of that outpouring of my love for my child, except as a listener while I sang and played for you alone. So your cradle with you in it must always be brought before I would let your father hear. “‘One day, when you were six or eight months old, we had a houseful of guests, as we often did at Pocahontas. They stayed over night of course, and in the evening when I asked their indulgence while I should go and sing you to sleep, your father madly pleaded that I should sing and play the lullaby in the drawing room in order that the guests might hear what he assured them was his supreme favorite among all musical compositions. I suppose I was in a more than usually complaisant mood. At any rate, I allowed myself to [Illustration: “_IN THAT MUSIC MY SOUL LAID ITSELF BARE TO YOURS AND PRAYED FOR YOUR LOVE_.”] be persuaded against my will, and mammy brought you in, in your cradle. I remember that you had a little pink sack over your night gown--a thing I had surreptitiously knitted for you without anybody’s knowledge, and without even the touch of a servant’s hand.