The maiden shook her head and murmured,—
"She is dead, brother; she will never come to us. It is death that keeps her from us."
"What is death?" said the child.
"I do not know," replied the maiden, her tears beginning to flow again; "she is happy with God; but she will never come to us again."
The Child was silent for some minutes. Then he said,—
"It must be the same that happened to my own dear little bird last winter."
"What little bird?"
"My little bird which used to come and sing to me every day whilst I took my breakfast, and eat from my hand, until one morning I found it lying quite still on the mossy bank. I spoke to it, but it would not open its eyes; and when I took it up, its little breast and wings, which were always so soft and warm, were quite cold. And it never sang to me again."
"Yes," said the maiden softly, "that must have been death."
They walked on some steps without speaking, till the Child said,—