’Tis man, not his palace, we dwell in;
’Tis comfort, not riches, we need!”—
I hurried across the young grass;
I threw off my sable fur cloak,
Lest its buttons of metal might tinkle—
Afraid my stepfather would hear me
And say “she is there,” to his son—
To his son who is doomed for my husband!’”
Again her voice sank and her hands must have strayed over her instrument. I had forgotten my impatience and stood listening in rapt attention, when she began again with the little refrain:
“‘If the frost nipped the flowerets no more,