Then, resuming her rocking, she sang, "There's not a rose where'er I seek As comely as my baby's cheek. There's not a comb of honey bee, So full of sweets as babe to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby." Again she bowed over the crib, and all the rocking flowers quivered and stood still. "Baby, darling! Why are there such poor roses in your little cheek? I would value them above all the China roses ever grown! Look at the Red Robin, my sweet, my sweet, and become as pink as is that." "There's not a star that shines on high Is brighter than my baby's eye. There's not a boat upon the sea Can dance as baby does to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet, and a lullaby." "No silk was ever spun so fine As is the hair of baby mine. My baby smells more sweet to me Than smells in spring the elder tree. And it's O! sweet, sweet, and a lullaby!" The child would not sleep. Again the mother stayed the rocking of the cradle, and the swaying of the flowers. She lifted the little creature from its bed carefully lest the sharp-leafed butcher's broom should scratch it. How surrounded was that crib with spikes, and they poisonous! And the red berries oozed out of the ribs of the cruel needle-armed leaves, like drops of heart's blood. Mehetabel took her child to her bosom, and rocked her own chair, and as she rocked, the sunbeam flashed across her face, and then she was in shadow, then another flash, and again shadow, and from her face, when sunlit, a reflection of light flooded the little white dress of the babe, and illumined the tiny arm, and restless fingers laid against her bosom. "A little fish swims in the well, So in my heart does baby dwell. A little flower blows on the tree, My baby is the flower to me. And It's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby!" A wondrous expression of peace and contentment was on Mehetabel's face. None of the care and pain that had lined it, none of the gloom of hopelessness that had lain on it, had left now thereon a trace. In her child all her hope was centred, all her love culminated. "The King has sceptre, crown and ball. You are my sceptre, crown and all, For all his robes of royal silk. More fair your skin, as white as milk. And it's O! sweet, sweet, and a lullaby! "Ten thousand parks where deer may run, Ten thousand roses in the sun. Ten thousand pearls beneath the sea. My babe, more precious is to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet, and a lullaby!" Presently gentle sleep descended on the head of the child, the pink eyelids closed, the restless hand ceased to grope and clutch, and the breath came evenly. Mehetabel laid her little one again in its cradle, and recommenced the rocking with the accompanying swaying of the flowers. Now that the child was asleep Mehetabel sat lightly swinging the cradle, afraid to leave it at rest lest that of her infant should again be broken.