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 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 book down before him without a word. "Don't give it back like that," he said. She took a brown spray out of the tin case. "I will put your favourite flower inside," she said, giving back the book into his hands.