mother, who sat spinning in her arm-chair. "Your friend Eric sent it
this noon from his estate as a present for Elisabeth."

"What estate?"

"Why, don't you know?"

"Know what?"

"That a month ago Eric took over his father's second estate by the
Immensee."[3]

[3] _i.e._ the 'Lake of the Bees'

"But you have never said a word to me about it."

"Well," said the mother, "you haven't yet made a single word of
inquiry after your friend. He is a very nice, sensible young man."

The mother went out of the room to make the coffee. Elisabeth had her
back turned to Reinhard, and was still busy with the making of her
little chick-weed bower.

"Please, just a little longer," she said, "I'll be done in a minute."

As Reinhard did not answer, contrary to his wont, she turned round and
faced him. In his eyes there was a sudden expression of trouble which
she had never observed before in them.

"What is the matter with you, Reinhard?" she said, drawing nearer to
him.

"With me?" he said, his thoughts far away and his eyes resting
dreamily on hers.

"You look so sad."

"Elisabeth," he said, "I cannot bear that yellow bird."

She looked at him in astonishment, without understanding his meaning.
"You are so strange," she said.

He took both her hands in his, and she let him keep them there. Her
mother came back into the room shortly after; and after they had drunk
their coffee she sat down at her spinning-wheel, while Reinhard and
Elisabeth went off into the next room to arrange their plants.

Stamens were counted, leaves and blossoms carefully opened out, and
two specimens of each sort were laid to dry between the pages of a
large folio volume.

All was calm and still this sunny afternoon; the only sounds to be
heard were the hum of the mother's spinning-wheel in the next room,
and now and then the subdued voice of Reinhard, as he named the orders
of the families of the plants, and corrected Elisabeth's awkward
pronunciation of the Latin names.

"I am still short of that lily of the valley which I didn't get last
time," said she, after the whole collection had been classified and
arranged.

Reinhard pulled a little white vellum volume from his pocket. "Here is
a spray of the lily of the valley for you," he said, taking out a
half-pressed bloom.

When Elisabeth saw the pages all covered with writing, she asked:
"Have you been writing stories again?"

"These aren't stories," he answered, handing her the bo