"The Tree bore his fruit in the Midsummer glow:
Said the girl, 'May I gather thy berries or no?'
'Yes; all thou canst see;
Take them; all are for thee,'
Said the Tree, while he bent down his laden boughs low."
That song nearly took her breath away. He, too, remained silent after it, as though he had sung more than he could say.
Darkness has a strong influence over those who are sitting in it and dare not speak: they are never so near each other as then. If she only turned on the pillow, or moved her hand on the blanket, or breathed a little more heavily, he heard it.
"Arne, couldn't you teach me to make songs?"
"Did you never try?"
"Yes, I have, these last few days; but I can't manage it."
"What, then, did you wish to have in them?"
"Something about my mother, who loved your father so dearly."
"That's a sad subject."
"Yes, indeed it is; and I have wept over it."