And they went into Death's large hot-house, where trees and flowers were growing promiscuously in a strange fashion. There were delicate hyacinths, under glass shades; and large peonies, as strong as trees. There were water-plants; some quite fresh, others half sickly from being entwined in the coils of water-snakes, while black crabs were hugging their stems. Then there were splendid palm-trees, oak, and plane-trees, besides parsley and thyme. Each tree and each flower had its name, and to each was attached the life of some human being, who might be living in China, in Greenland, or in any other part of the world, as it might happen. Some large trees were planted in little pots, so that they were stifled, and ready to shiver the pots to atoms; while many little weakly flowers were set in a rich soil, surrounded with moss, and nurtured with the utmost care. But the afflicted mother bent over the smallest plants, and could hear in each the beatings of a human heart; and she recognised the beatings of her child's heart amongst a million.
"There he is," cried she, stretching out her hand towards a little crocus, that drooped its sickly head on one side.
"Do not touch the flower," said the old woman. "But place yourself here, and when Death comes—and I expect him every minute—don't let him root up the plant, but threaten him to serve other flowers the same, and then he'll be uneasy! He must account for each to God, and none must be uprooted till leave be given him to do so."
A cold wind blew through the hot-house, and the blind mother felt it must be Death who had just arrived.
"How did you find your way hither?" asked he. "How could you come faster than I did?"
"I am a mother!" answered she.
And Death stretched out his hand towards the little delicate flower; but she held her hands fast around it, and clung to it so anxiously, yet so carefully withal, that not one of its leaves were injured. Then Death breathed on her hands, and she felt his breath to be colder than the biting wind, and her hands relaxed their hold.
"You cannot prevail against me," said Death.
"But a merciful God may," said she.
"I only obey His will," said Death. "I am His gardener. I take all His flowers and trees, and transplant them into the vast garden of paradise, in an unknown land. How they flourish there, and what that garden is like, I may not say."
"Give me back my child," said the mother, with tears and entreaties. And she seized hold of two pretty flowers, and said to Death: "I will tear up all your flowers, for I am in despair!"
"Do not touch them," said Death. "You say you are unhappy; and would you make another mother just as unhappy as yourself?"
"Another mother!" cried the poor woman, leaving hold of the flowers.
"There are your eyes," said Death. "I have fished them up out of the lake. They were so bright, that I knew they were yours. Take them back—they are now more brilliant than before—and then look into the deep well just by. I will speak the names of the two flowers that you wished to root up, when their whole future career shall lie displayed before you. And then you will see what you wanted to ruin and destroy in the bud."
And she then looked down into the well; and it was delightful to see how the existence of one of these flowers was a blessing to the world, and how much happiness it spread around; while the life of the other was full of care, anxiety, misery, and wretchedness.
"Both are the will of God," said Death.
"Which is the unhappy flower, and which is the blessed one?" said she.
"I may not tell you," answered Death: "but this much shall you learn from me: that one of these flowers was attached to your child's existence. It was the future fate that awaited your child that you beheld!"
The mother then uttered a scream of alarm.
"Which of them was my child's fate? Tell me. Deliver the innocent one! Deliver my child from so much misery! Rather take it away! Take it to the kingdom of God! Forget my tears and my entreaties, and all that I have done!"
"I do not understand you," said Death. "Do you wish to have your child back again, or shall I take him to that place which you do not know?"
The mother then wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and prayed to God: "Grant not my prayers when they are contrary to Thy will, which must always be the best! Oh! grant them not!" And her head drooped upon her bosom.
And Death carried her child to the unknown land.
