There was a door leading from Mr. Palma's sleeping-room, to the curtained alcove behind the writing desk, and having quietly entered by that passage soon after Regina came home, the master of the house sat on a lounge veiled by damask and lace curtains, and holding the drapery slightly aside, watched what passed in the library. He was rising to declare his presence, when Llora came in, and somewhat vexed at the _contretemps_ he awaited the result. As Regina knelt on the rug and opened her arms, the pretty child sprang into them, kissed her cheeks, and assured her repeatedly that she loved her very dearly, that she was the loveliest girl she ever saw, especially in that gauze dress. Particularly fond of children, Regina toyed with, and caressed her for some minutes, then rose, and said: "Now I will sing you a little song to put you to sleep. Sit here by the hearth, but be sure not to nod and fall into the fire." She opened the organ, and although partly beyond the range of Mr. Palma's vision, he heard every syllable of the sweet mellow English words of Kuecken's "Schlummerlied," with its soothing refrain: "Oh, hush thee now, in slumber mild, While watch I keep, oh sleep, my child." She sang it with strange pathos, thinking of her own far distant mother, whom fate had denied the privilege of chanting lullabies over her lonely blue-eyed child. Ending, she came back to the hearth, and Llora clasped her tiny hands, and chirped: "Oh, so sweet! When you get to heaven, don't you reckon you will sit in the choir? Once more, oh! do, please." "What a hungry little beggar you are! Come, sit in my lap, and I will hum you a dear little tune. Then you must positively scamper away to bed, or your mamma will scold us both, and your mammie also." A tall yellow woman with a white handkerchief wound turban-style around her head, came stealthily forward, and said: "Miss, give her to me. I went downstairs for a drink of water, and when I got back I missed her. Come, baby, let me carry you to bed or you will have the croup, and the doctors might cut your throat." "Wait, mammie, till she sings that little tune she promised; then I will go." Regina sat down in a low cushioned chair, took the little girl on her lap, and while the curly head nestled on her shoulder, and one arm clasped her neck, she rested her chin upon the brown hair, and sang in a very sweet, subdued tone that most soothing of all lullaby strains, Wallace's "Cradle Song." As she proceeded, the turbaned head of the nurse kept time, swaying to and fro in the background, and a sweeter picture never adorned canvas than that which Mr. Palma watched in front of his library fire, and which photographed itself indelibly upon his memory. Singer and child occupied very much the same position as the figures in the _Madonna della Sedia_, and no more lovely woman and child ever sat for its painter.