Where shall I find my little child?"

"Nay, I know not," said the woman, "and you cannot see! Many flowers
and trees have withered this night; Death will soon come and plant
them over again! You certainly know that every person has his or her
life's tree or flower, just as every one happens to be settled; they
look like other plants, but they have pulsations of the heart.
Children's hearts can also beat; go after yours, perhaps you may know
your child's; but what will you give me if I tell you what you shall
do more?"

"I have nothing to give," said the afflicted mother, "but I will go to
the world's end for you!"

"Nay, I have nothing to do there!" said the woman, "but you can give
me your long black hair; you know yourself that it is fine, and that I
like! You shall have my white hair instead! and that's always
something!"

"Do you demand nothing else?" said she,--"that I will gladly give
you!" And she gave her her fine black hair, and got the old woman's
snow-white hair instead.

So they went into Death's great greenhouse, where flowers and trees
grew strangely into one another. There stood fine hyacinths under
glass bells, and there stood strong-stemmed peonies; there grew water
plants, some so fresh, others half sick, the water-snakes lay down on
them, and black crabs pinched their stalks. There stood beautiful
palm-trees, oaks, and plantains; there stood parsley and flowering
thyme: every tree and every flower had its name; each of them was a
human life, the human frame still lived--one in China, and another in
Greenland--round about in the world. There were large trees in small
pots, so that they stood so stunted in growth, and ready to burst the
pots; in other places, there was a little dull flower in rich mould,
with moss round about it, and it was so petted and nursed. But the
distressed mother bent down over all the smallest plants, and heard
within them how the human heart beat; and amongst millions she knew
her child's.

"There it is!" cried she, and stretched her hands out over a little
blue crocus, that hung quite sickly on one side.

"Don't touch the flower!" said the old woman, "but place yourself
here, and when Death comes,--I expect him every moment,--do not let
him pluck the flower up, but threaten him that you will do the same
with the others. Then he will be afraid! he is responsible for them to
_Our Lord_, and no one dares to pluck them up before _He_ gives
leave."

All at once an icy