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 book.

The contents were all poems, and the majority of them at most filled
one page. Elisabeth turned over the leaves one after another; she
appeared to be reading the titles only. "When she was scolded by the
teacher." "When they lost their way in the woods." "An Easter story."
"On her writing to me for the first time." Thus ran most of the
titles.

Reinhard fixed his eyes on her with a searching look, and as she kept
turning over the leaves he saw that a gentle blush arose and gradually
mantled over the whole of her sweet face. He would fain have looked
into her eyes, but Elisabeth did not look up, and finally laid the