She was silent a while: then she said, "Sing a hymn." And he sang one: it was the confirmation hymn. When he had finished he heard her weeping, and so he was afraid to sing again; but in a little while she said, "Sing one more." And he sang another: it was the one which is generally sung while the catechumens are standing in the aisle. "How many things I've thought over while I've been lying here," Eli said. He did not know what to answer; and he heard her weeping again in the dark. A clock that was ticking on the wall warned for striking, and then struck. Eli breathed deeply several times, as if she would lighten her breast, and then she said, "One knows so little; I knew neither father nor mother. I haven't been kind to them; and now it seems so sad to hear that hymn." When we talk in the darkness, we speak more faithfully than when we see each other's face; and we also say more. "It does one good to hear you talk so," Arne replied, just remembering what she had said when she was taken ill. She understood what he meant. "If now this had not happened to me," she went on, "God only knows how long I might have gone before I found mother." "She has talked matters over with you lately, then?" "Yes, every day; she has done hardly anything else." "Then, I'm sure you've heard many things." "You may well say so." "I think she spoke of my father?" "Yes." "She remembers him still?" "She remembers him." "He wasn't kind to her." "Poor mother!" "Yet he was worst to himself." They were silent; and Arne had thoughts which he could not utter. Eli was the first to link their words again. "You are said to be like your father." "People say so," he replied evasively. She did not notice the tone of his voice, and so, after a while she returned to the subject. "Could he, too, make songs?" "No." "Sing a song to me ... one that you've made yourself." "I have none," he said; for it was not his custom to confess he had himself composed the songs he sang. "I'm sure you have; and I'm sure, too, you'll sing one of them when I ask you." What he had never done for any one else, he now did for her, as he sang the following song,-- "The Tree's early leaf-buds were bursting their brown: 'Shall I take them away?' said the Frost, sweeping down. 'No; leave them alone Till the blossoms have grown,' Prayed the tree, while he trembled from rootlet to crown. "The Tree bore his blossoms, and all the birds sung: 'Shall I take them away?' said the Wind, as he swung. 'No; leave them alone Till the berries have grown,' Said the Tree, while his leaflets quivering hung. "The Tree bore his fruit in the Midsummer glow: Said the girl, 'May I gather thy berries or no?' 'Yes; all thou canst see; Take them; all are for thee,' Said the Tree, while he bent down his laden boughs low."