“Sing to me, mother,” said Finn.

“Yes,” she said.

She crossed the room with a stronger step than usual. Her cheek was red and her eyes glowed. She took hold of the instrument with firm hands when she opened it. Finn noticed this and looked at her in surprise; but it was not light enough for him to make out her face.

Lovs’t thou the peasant in his cosy cottage-nook?

Thou shalt share bed and board with him, eating and sleeping;

Thou shalt tranquilly brew and merrily cook;

Dusty wheel, rusty needle thy care shall not brook;

Thou shalt bless sun and rain in God’s keeping.

But she that loves none shall go weeping!

Lovs’t thou the poet with harp all of gold?