(1848)
A mother sat by her little child; she was very sad, for she feared it would
die. It was quite pale, and its little eyes were closed, and sometimes it drew
a heavy deep breath, almost like a sigh; and then the mother gazed more
sadly than ever on the poor little creature. Some one knocked at the door,
and a poor old man walked in. He was wrapped in something that looked
like a great horse-cloth; and he required it truly to keep him warm, for it
was cold winter; the country everywhere lay covered with snow and ice,
and the wind blew so sharply that it cut one’s face. The little child had
dozed off to sleep for a moment, and the mother, seeing that the old man
shivered with the cold, rose and placed a small mug of beer on the stove to
warm for him. The old man sat and rocked the cradle; and the mother seated
herself on a chair near him, and looked at her sick child who still breathed
heavily, and took hold of its little hand.
“You think I shall keep him, do you not?” she said. “Our all-merciful God
will surely not take him away from me.”
The old man, who was indeed Death himself, nodded his head in a
peculiar manner, which might have signified either Yes, or No; and the
mother cast down her eyes, while the tears rolled down her cheeks. Then
her head became heavy, for she had not closed her eyes for three days and
nights, and she slept, but only for a moment. Shivering with cold, she
started up and looked round the room. The old man was gone, and her
child-it was gone too! -the old man had taken it with him. In the corner of
the room the old clock began to strike; “whirr” went the chains, the heavy
weight sank to the ground, and the clock stopped; and the poor mother
rushed out of the house calling for her child. Out in the snow sat a woman
in long black garments, and she said to the mother, “Death has been with
