Then she came to a great Lake, on which there were neither ships nor boat.  The Lake was not frozen enough to carry her, nor sufficiently open to allow her to wade through, and yet she must cross it if she was to find her child.  Then she laid herself down to drink the Lake; and that was impossible for any one to do.  But the sorrowing mother thought that perhaps a miracle might be wrought.

“No, that can never succeed,” said the Lake.  “Let us rather see how we can agree.  I’m fond of collecting pearls, and your eyes are the two clearest I have ever seen:  if you will weep them out into me I will carry you over into the great greenhouse, where Death lives and cultivates flowers and trees; each of these is a human life.”

“Oh, what would I not give to get my child!” said the afflicted mother; and she wept yet more, and her eyes fell into the depths of the Lake, and became two costly pearls.  But the Lake lifted her up, as if she sat in a swing, and she was wafted to the opposite shore, where stood a wonderful house, miles in length.  One could not tell if it was a mountain containing forests and caves, or a place that had been built.  But the poor mother could not see it, for she had wept her eyes out.

“Where shall I find Death, who went away with my little child?” she asked.

“He has not arrived here yet,” said an old gray-haired Woman, who was going about and watching the hothouse of Death.  “How have you found your way here, and who helped you?”

“The good God has helped me,” she replied.  “He is merciful, and you will be merciful too.  Where shall I find my little child?”

“I do not know it,” said the old Woman, “and you cannot see.  Many flowers and trees have faded this night, and Death will soon come and transplant them.  You know very well that every human being has his tree of life, or his flower of life, just as each is arranged.  They look like other plants, but their hearts beat.  Children’s hearts can beat too.  Think of this.  Perhaps you may recognize the beating of your child’s heart.  But what will you give me if I tell you what more you must do?”

“I have nothing more to give,” said the afflicted mother.  “But I will go for you to the ends of the earth.”

“I have nothing for you to do there,” said the old Woman, “but you can give me your long black hair.  You must know yourself that it is beautiful, and it pleases me.  You can take my white hair for it, and that is always something.”

“Do you ask for nothing more?” asked she.  “I will give you that gladly.”  And she gave her beautiful hair, and received in exchange the old Woman’s white hair.