s-- I have heard it before--they are
not weak as we are; they do not fear to pass from thought to deed.
[Takes up a goblet which stands on the table.] 'Twas in this
beaker that Gudmund and I, when he went away, drank to his happy
return. 'Tis well-nigh the only heirloom I brought with me to
Solhoug. [Putting the goblet away in a cupboard.] How soft is
this summer day; and how light it is in here! So sweetly has the
sun not shone for three long years.

[SIGNE, and after her GUDMUND, enters from the left.

SIGNE. [Runs laughing up to MARGIT.]

Ha, ha, ha! He will not believe that 'tis I!

MARGIT. [Smiling to GUDMUND.]

You see: while in far-off lands you strayed,
She, too, has altered, the little maid.

GUDMUND.

Aye truly! But that she should be-- Why,
'Tis a marvel in very deed.
[Takes both SIGNE's hands and looks at her.

Yet, when I look in these eyes so blue,
The innocent child-mind I still can read--
Yes, Signe, I know that 'tis you!
I needs must laugh when I think how oft
I have thought of you perched on my shoulder aloft
As you used to ride. You were then a child;
Now you are a nixie, spell-weaving, wild.

SIGNE. [Threatening with her finger.]

Beware! If the nixie's ire you awaken,
Soon in her nets you will find yourself taken.

GUDMUND. [To himself.]

I am snared already, it seems to me.

SIGNE.

But, Gudmund, wait--you have still to see
How I've shielded your harp from the dust and the rust.
[As she goes out to the left.

You shall teach me all of your songs! You must!

GUDMUND. [Softly, as he follows her with his eyes.]

She has flushed to the loveliest rose of May,
That was yet but a bud in the morning's ray.

SIGNE. [Returning with the harp.]

Behold!

GUDMUND. [Taking it.]

My harp! As bright as of yore!
[Striking one or two chords.

Still the old chords ring sweet and clear--
On the wall, untouched, thou shalt hang no more.

MARGIT. [Looking out at the back.]

Our guests are coming.

SIGNE. [While GUDMUND preludes his song.]

Hush--hush! Oh, hear!

GUDMUND. [Sings.]

I roamed through the uplands so heavy of cheer;
The little birds quavered in bush and in brere;
The little birds quavered, around and above:
Wouldst know of the sowing and growing of love?

It grows like the oak tree through slow-rolling years;
'Tis nourished by dreams, and by songs, and by tears;
But swiftly 'tis s