The flow of the long, white dress of the waif on the dark blue of Norah's
gown, which so matched the deep sapphire of her eyes, caught Jean
Jacques' glance, allured his mind. It was the symbol of youth and
innocence and home. Suddenly he had a vision of the day when his own Zoe
had been given to the cradle for the first time, and he had done exactly
what Norah had done--rocked too fast and too hard, and waked his little
one; and Carmen had taken her up in her long white draperies, and had
rocked to and fro, just like this, singing a lullaby. That lullaby he
had himself sung often afterwards; and now, with his grandchild in
Norah's arms there before him--with this other Zoe--the refrain of it
kept lilting in his brain. In the pause ensuing, when Norah stooped to
put the pacified child again in its nest, he also stooped over the cradle
and began to hum the words of the lullaby:

"Sing, little bird, of the whispering leaves,
Sing a song of the harvest sheaves;
Sing a song to my Fanchonette,
Sing a song to my Fanchonette!
Over her eyes, over her eyes, over her eyes of violet,
See the web that the weaver weaves,
The web of sleep that the weaver weaves--
Weaves, weaves, weaves!
Over those eyes of violet,
Over those eyes of my Fanchonette,
Weaves, weaves, weaves--
See the web that the weaver weaves!"

For quite two minutes Jean Jacques and Norah Doyle stooped over the
cradle, looking at Zoe's rosy, healthy, pretty face, as though