Pause.
“Would to Heaven he were not so harsh with you, Eva.”
“But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all now.”
And her voice is like a little tremulous song in the woods.
The woods more yellow still. It is drawing towards autumn now; a few more stars have come in the sky, and from now on the moon looks like a shadow of silver dipped in gold. There is no cold; nothing, only a cool stillness and a flow of life in the woods. Every tree stands in silent thought. The berries are ripe.
Then—the twenty-second of August and the three iron nights. [Footnote: Joernnætter. Used of the nights in August when the first frosts appear.]