“Who are you?” she asked, when the song had ceased. “Where did you come from and what is your name?” “I came to live with Alice. You know Alice,” Magdalen said,—“she is your daughter.” “Yes, one of them; but not _that_ one, over there in the cradle. Please give it a little jog. I can’t have my baby waking up and crying, for that disturbs Arthur, and he might send it away to goat’s milk and a wet nurse. Give it a jog, please.” She pointed to the head of her bed, and for the first time Magdalen observed a pretty little rosewood crib, with dainty pillow-cases, ruffled and fluted, and snowy Marseilles quilt, spotlessly white and clean. But there was no infant’s head upon the pillow, no little hands outside the spread, or sound of infant’s breathing. The crib was empty, and Magdalen glanced inquiringly at Mrs. Jenks, who said: “You may as well rock it first as last. She will give you no peace till you do. It’s a fancy of hers that there’s a baby there, and she sometimes rocks it day and night. She is always quiet when she is on that tack, but sometimes the baby gets out of the cradle into her head, and then there is no pacifying her. Her tantrum is over now, and, if you are willing, I’ll leave her with you a few moments. I shan’t be out of hearing. My room is across the hall.” She was evidently anxious to get away; and Magdalen, who would not confess to any fear, was left alone with the crazy woman. She had drawn the crib nearer to her, and with her foot upon the rocker kept it in motion, while Laura commenced a low, cooing sort of lullaby of “Hush, my darling! mother’s near you!” The novelty of her situation, and the wakefulness of the previous night, began to have a strange effect on Magdalen, and, as she rocked the cradle to the sound of that low, mournful music, it seemed to her as if it were her own self she was rocking, herself far back in that past of which she knew so little. There was a dizzy feeling in her head, a humming in her ears, and for a few moments she felt almost as crazy as the woman at her side. But as she became more accustomed to the room and the situation, she grew calmer and less nervous, and could think what it was better to reply to the strange questions her companion sometimes put to her. “If a person killed something and didn’t know it, and didn’t mean to, and didn’t know as they had killed it, would God call them a murderer, as He did Cain?” This was one question, and Magdalen replied at random, that in such a case it was no murder, and God would not so consider it.