But few passers-by came to make a path in the deep snow, and, when the mother was obliged to go to the village for bread, she came back well-nigh exhausted. Deep sorrow and anxiety filled her heart, and if she could not earn enough by knitting and spinning for the black bread, the little family must live upon the milk of the meager goat, and there were still three long winter months before them.
Formerly she had sung at night by her children’s bedside, but now she was too oppressed to sing.
One night she sat in silence listening to the wind. It howled and rattled around the little cottage as if it would blow it away. Franzelie was fast asleep—she had no care if her mother was by her side—but Barty’s eyes were wide open.
“Mother,” he said, “why do you never sing any more?”
“Alas, dear boy, I cannot.”
“Wait,” said Barty, “I will tell you how it goes.”
“Have you forgotten the song? Wait, I will tell you how it goes.” And he sat up in bed and sang:
“Now the shades of darkness
Fall o’er land and sea.