'Good-morning, thou little angel of God,' she said to him.
'Good-morning, Ingrid,' the angel said. 'Whilst thou art lying here doing nothing, I would like to speak a little with thee about days gone by.'
Ingrid heard distinctly every word the angel said; but his voice was not like anything she had ever heard before. It was more like a stringed instrument; it was not like singing, but like the tones of a violin or the clang of a harp.
'Ingrid,' the angel said, 'dost thou remember, whilst thy grandfather was still living, that thou once met a young student, who went with thee from house to house playing the whole day on thy grandfather's violin?'
The girl's face was lighted by a smile.
'Dost thou think I have forgotten this?' she said. 'Ever since that time no day has passed when I have not thought of him.'
'And no night when thou hast not dreamt of him?'
'No, not a night when I have not dreamt of him.'
'And thou wilt die, although thou rememberest him so well,' said the angel. 'Then thou wilt never be able to see him again.'
When he said this it was as if the dead girl felt all the happiness of love, but even that could not tempt her.