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
unconscious of each other, and only conscious of the child. When Jean
Jacques had finished the long first verse of the chanson, and would have
begun another, Norah made a protesting gesture.
"She's asleep, and there's no more need," she said. "Wasn't it a good
lullaby, madame?" Jean Jacques asked.
"So, so," she replied, on her defence again.
"It was good enough for her mother," he replied, pointing to the cradle.
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