He could not understand it; he was almost angry with Elisabeth, and yet he doubted whether it had really been she. He was, however, shy of questioning her about it--nay, he even avoided going into the garden-room on his return to the house for fear he should happen to see Elisabeth enter through the garden-door. * * * * * BY MY MOTHER'S HARD DECREE Some days later, as evening was already closing in, the family was, as usual at this time of the day, sitting all together in their garden-room. The doors stood wide open, and the sun had already sunk behind the woods on the far side of the lake. Reinhard was invited to read some folk-songs which had been sent to him that afternoon by a friend who lived away in the country. He went up to his room and soon returned with a roll of papers which seemed to consist of detached neatly written pages. So they all sat down to the table, Elisabeth beside Reinhard. "We shall read them at random," said the latter, "I have not yet looked through them myself." Elisabeth unrolled the manuscript. "Here's some music," she said, "you must sing it, Reinhard." To begin with he read some Tyrolese ditties[5] and as he read on he would now and then hum one or other of the lively melodies. A general feeling of cheeriness pervaded the little party. [5] Dialectal for _Schnitterhüpfen_, _i.e._ 'reapers' dances,' sung especially in the Tyrol and in Bavaria. "And who, pray, made all these pretty songs?" asked Elisabeth. "Oh," said Eric, "you can tell that by listening to the rubbishy things--tailors' apprentices and barbers and such-like merry folk." Reinhard said: "They are not made; they grow, they drop from the clouds, they float over the land like gossamer, hither and thither, and are sung in a thousand places at the same time.[6] We discover in these songs our very inmost activities and sufferings: it is as if we all had helped to write them." [6] These fine cobwebs, produced by field-spiders, have always in the popular mind been connected with the gods. After the advent of Christianity they were connected with the Virgin Mary. The shroud in which she was wrapped after her death was believed to have been woven of the very finest thread, which during her ascent to Heaven frayed away from her body. He took up another sheet: "I stood on the mountain height..."[7] [7] An ancient folk-song which treats of a beautiful but poor maiden, who, being unable to marry 'the young count,' retired to a convent. "I know that one," cried Elisabeth; "begin it, do, Reinhard, and I will help you out." So they sang that famous melody, which is so mysterious that one can hardly believe that it was ever conceived by the heart of man, Elisabeth with her slightly clouded contralta taking the second part to the young man's tenor.