ew its breath so painfully, and seized the little hand.

"You think I shall keep it, do you not?" she asked. "The good God will
not take it from me!"

And the old man--he was _Death_--nodded in such a strange way, that it
might just as well mean _yes_ as _no_. And the mother cast down her
eyes, and tears rolled down her cheeks. Her head became heavy: for three
days and three nights she had not closed her eyes; and now she slept,
but only for a minute; then she started up and shivered with cold.

"What is that?" she asked, and looked round on all sides; but the old
man was gone, and her little child was gone; he had taken it with him.
And there in the corner the old clock was humming and whirring; the
heavy leaden weight ran down to the floor--plump!--and the clock
stopped.

But the poor mother rushed out of the house crying for her child.

Out in the snow sat a woman in long black garments, and she said, "Death
has been with you in your room; I saw him hasten away with your child:
he strides faster than the wind, and never brings back what he has taken
away."

"Only tell me which way he has gone," said the mother. "Tell me the way,
and I will find him."

"I know him," said the woman in the black garments; "but before I tell
you, you must sing me all the songs that you have sung to your child. I
love those songs; I have heard them before. I am Night, and I saw your
tears when you sang them."

"I will sing them all, all!" said the mother. "But do not detain me,
that I may overtake him, and find my child."

But Night sat dumb and still. Then the mother wrung her hands, and sang
and wept. And there were many songs, but yet more tears, and then Night
said, "Go to the right into the dark fir wood; for I saw Death take that
path with your little child."

Deep in the forest there was a cross road, and she did not know which
way to take. There stood a Blackthorn Bush, with not a leaf nor a
blossom upon it; for it was in the cold winter time, and icicles hung
from the twigs.

"Have you not seen Death go by, with my little child?"

"Yes," replied the Bush, "but I shall not tell you which way he went
unless you warm me on your bosom. I'm freezing to death here; I'm
turning to ice."

And she pressed the Blackthorn Bush to her bosom, quite close, that it
might be well warmed. And the thorns pierced into her flesh, and her
blood oozed out in great drops. But the Blackthorn shot out fresh green
leaves, and blossomed in