which the sewer draws deftly through the cloth.

On a pole which runs from floor to ceiling is a hook, from which a
lamp is suspended by a chain. This lamp appears to be a boat-shaped
vessel with the wick coming out at one end. The light gilds the
mother's gentle profile with shining radiance; it illumines the
fingers of her right hand, and gleams on the coarse garment in her
lap, transforming it into a cloth of gold.

[Illustration: From a carbon print by Braun, Clément & Co. THE WOMAN
SEWING BY LAMPLIGHT John Andrew & Son, Sc.]

The baby meanwhile lies on the other side of the lamp in the shadow.
His little mouth is open, and he is fast asleep. We can almost fancy
that the mother croons a lullaby as she sews. There is a pathetic
little French song called La Petite Hélène, which Millet's mother used
to sing to him, and which he in turn taught his own children. Perhaps
we could not understand the words if we could hear it. But when
mothers sing to their babies, whatever the tongue in which they speak,
they use a common language of motherhood. Some such simple little
lullaby as this, which mothers of another land sing to their babes,
would doubtless interpret this mother's thoughts:--

"Sleep, baby, sleep!
Thy father watches the sheep;
Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree,
And down comes a little dream on thee.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

"Sleep, baby, sleep!