--Alas! what a golden, delicious afternoon is blowing without there,
wasting for ever; and never a glimpse of it. Delicate work this! Here's
a needle might serve for a genuine stiletto! No matter,--it is the
cause,--it is the cause that makes, as my mother says, each stitch in
this clumsy fabric a grander thing than the flashing of the bravest
lance that brave knight ever won.

(_Singing_)
_The brooks are talking in the dell,
Tul la lul, tul la lul,
The brooks are talking low, and sweet,
Under the boughs where th' arches meet;
Come to the dell, come to the dell,
Oh come, come_.

_The birds are singing in the dell,
Wee wee whoo, wee wee whoo;
The birds are singing wild and free,
In every bough of the forest tree,
Come to the dell, come to the dell,
Oh come, come_.

_And there the idle breezes lie,
Whispering, whispering,
Whispering with the laughing leaves.
And nothing says each idle breeze,
But come, come, come, O lady come,
Come to th' dell_.

[_Mrs. Grey enters from without_.]