I think I must have lain in her arms, and heard her singing so to me when I was but a baby.
The strain was new to me, and yet it was so old that it filled my heart brim-full; like a friend come back from a long absence.
I believed, from the solitary and thoughtful way in which my mother murmured her song, that she was alone.

And I went softly into the room.
She was sitting by the fire, suckling an infant, whose tiny hand she held against her neck.

Her eyes were looking down upon its face, and she sat singing to it.

I was so far right, that she had no other companion.
I spoke to her, and she started, and cried out.

But seeing me, she called me her dear Davy, her own boy! and coming half across the room to meet me, kneeled down upon the ground and kissed me, and laid my head down on her bosom near the little creature that was nestling there, and put its hand to my lips.
I wish I had died.