g mother thought him, drew the infant tenderly to his breast,
and murmured in a low tone, '_Poor little thing! poor little helpless
thing!_' and gave her back to her nurse, and went away without saying
another word.

"That same evening the doctor came again. It was very unusual for him to
come after dark, and his great creaking boots and rough manner would
have broken in upon a very pretty group.

"But he went softly up stairs, and looked in the room, unseen himself.
There was the happy mother wrapped in a cashmere, and half-buried in an
immense arm-chair, with a sweet motherly look upon her face, watching
her darling.

"Close to his wife, Eva's father sat, holding her in his arms; and,
wonderful to tell, for a _man_, holding her quite comfortably; for he
had lulled her to sleep with a lullaby of his own composition, the
language of which was utterly unknown to the rest of the company. He was
learning to talk 'baby talk,' and was really getting on very well, and
just now he was looking extremely proud and happy at his success in
soothing the little one.

"Opposite to these happy parents sat Mr. Vernon, a noble-looking
gentleman, and his wife, a beautiful lady, uncle and aunt to the baby;
and, in the distance, was the faithful black nurse, old Dinah, fast
asleep, and quite as happy, in her own opinion, as the rest of the
party.

"Presently the father laid the baby tenderly down in her beautiful
cradle, and while gently rocking her, said softly: 'I wonder what the
baby was thinking about while I sang to her?'

"'She looked so wonderfully wise,' said the mother.

"'Did you ever come across that lovely little poem--"What is the little
one thinking about?"' said Mr. Vernon. 'I can only remember the last
part of it, though my little daughter has often read it to me,' and he
recited, in a sweet, low voice, this exquisite little fragment:

"What is the little one thinking about?
What does she think of her mother's eyes?
What does she think of her mother's hair?
What, of the cradle roof that flies
Forward and backward through the air?
What does she think of her mother's breast,
Round and beautiful, smooth and white,
Seeking it ever with fresh delight--
Cup of her life, and couch of her rest?
What does she think, when her quick embrace
Presses her hand, and buries her face
Deep, where the