"A thought came into my mind, mother," she said sadly, "that I was the butterfly sporting among the flowers, and he the fierce glistening insect that darted upon it and bore it away. But then, mother, the bird came and took both. Why was that?" "Thou art not well, Tara," replied her mother, not understanding her, for she had not noticed the occurrence, and, seeing her shiver, thought her feverish. "Thou art not well; lie in my arms for a while, and the cold will pass away. O Holy Mother!" she cried aloud, as Tara, sobbing convulsively, hid her face in her bosom, "let not evil come to this child--thine and mine. O, be good to her, as thou hast taken her!" "Would that it were so," said the girl, after a while, and still sobbing. "I would go, mother, if she would take me. What use am I in life? It would be bitter to leave the house and all of ye, but I should be with her. Did she not promise this when she touched my hair? Ah, yes; and she will not forget it." "Hush, child; let this fancy pass from thee. Sleep, now, here. I will sing thee the old song. Nay, thou shalt not leave me! There is room at thy mother's heart, and strength still in her arms, to hold thee safely." As Tara laid herself softly down in the old place, and her mother, rocking herself to and fro, sang the low sweet lullaby of childhood,--the girl's sobbing gradually stopped, and a gentle sleep fell upon her. Anunda watched the change anxiously. At first her brow was contracted, as if with pain, and a broken sob came now and again with her breathing; but gradually the head fell back on her arm, the sweet mouth opened slightly, and tears, which had had no vent before, welled gently from under the closed eyelids as the features relaxed into a smile. "Yes," thought Anunda, as she bent over her child, while her own tears fell hot and fast, "the Mother is with her now, and she is again happy." "What hath happened?" asked Radha soon afterwards, as, refreshed by her sleep, she rose, and came gently towards the low spinning-chair on which Anunda still sat. "Is she ill?" "Hush!" returned Anunda, in a whisper. "If we can lay her down I will tell thee, but we must not wake her. I think.... I think the Mother hath been with her again; but I will tell thee." Radha hastily spread out a soft mattress and pillow close to the stool, and, raising Tara together, they laid her down upon it, as they would a child. Her mother patted her gently as she lay, and gradually the same sweet smile as at first again stole over her face. "Look, she sees the Mother!" said Anunda reverently. "It is always so, and nothing can wake her till the time is past. Ah, thou art happy now, my child, be it ever so with thee!" "What did she say, sister?" asked Radha, as, having thrown a light sheet over the sleeping girl, they sat down to watch her apart, lest the noise of the wheels--for Radha had taken Tara's and joined the broken thread--should awaken her. "What did the goddess say?"