“I have nothing to give,” said the afflicted mother, “but I will go to the world’s end for you!”

“Nay, I have nothing to do there!” said the woman.  “But you can give me your long black hair; you know yourself that it is fine, and that I like!  You shall have my white hair instead, and that’s always something!”

“Do you demand nothing else?” said she.  “That I will gladly give you!” And she gave her her fine black hair, and got the old woman’s snow-white hair instead.

So they went into Death’s great greenhouse, where flowers and trees grew strangely into one another.  There stood fine hyacinths under glass bells, and there stood strong-stemmed peonies; there grew water plants, some so fresh, others half sick, the water-snakes lay down on them, and black crabs pinched their stalks.  There stood beautiful palm-trees, oaks, and plantains; there stood parsley and flowering thyme:  every tree and every flower had its name; each of them was a human life, the human frame still lived—­one in China, and another in Greenland—­round about in the world.  There were large trees in small pots, so that they stood so stunted in growth, and ready to burst the pots; in other places, there was a little dull flower in rich mould, with moss round about it, and it was so petted and nursed.  But the distressed mother bent down over all the smallest plants, and heard within them how the human heart beat; and amongst millions she knew her child’s.

“There it is!” cried she, and stretched her hands out over a little blue crocus, that hung quite sickly on one side.

“Don’t touch the flower!” said the old woman.  “But place yourself here, and when Death comes—­I expect him every moment—­do not let him pluck the flower up, but threaten him that you will do the same with the others.  Then he will be afraid!  He is responsible for them to our lord, and no one dares to pluck them up before he gives leave.”

All at once an icy cold rushed through the great hall, and the blind mother could feel that it was Death that came.

“How hast thou been able to find thy way hither?” he asked.  “How couldst thou come quicker than I?”

“I am a mother,” said she.

And Death stretched out his long hand towards the fine little flower, but she held her hands fast around his, so tight, and yet afraid that she should touch one of the leaves.  Then Death blew on her hands, and she felt that it was colder than the cold wind, and her hands fell down powerless.

“Thou canst not do anything against me!” said Death.

“But our lord can!” said she.

“I only do His bidding!” said Death.  “I am His gardener, I take all His flowers and trees, and plant them out in the great garden of Paradise, in the unknown land; but how they grow there, and how it is there I dare not tell thee.”

“Give me back my child!” said the mother, and she wept and prayed.  At once she seized hold of two beautiful flowers close by, with each hand, and cried out to Death, “I will tear all thy flowers off, for I am in despair.”