Laura took a piece of music, the first leaf of which was beautifully ornamented with gilded elves and lilies, and played the "Elfin Waltz," secretly trembling, but with great execution; and she explained, laughingly, with a shake of her black locks, the passages where the spirits came fluttering in and mysteriously chattered together. Ilse was highly delighted. "How quickly your little fingers fly," she said, regarding Laura's delicate hand with admiration. "See how large my hand is in comparison and how hard the skin--that comes from doing housework." Laura looked entreatingly at her. "If I might only hear you sing." "I can sing nothing but hymns and some old country songs." "Oh, do sing them," begged Laura. "I will endeavor to accompany you." Ilse began an old melody and Laura tried a modest accompaniment and listened with transport to the rich sound of Ilse's voice; she felt her heart tremble under the swelling tones and ventured to join in the last verse. After this she searched for a song which was known to both, and, when they succeeded tolerably in singing together, Laura clapped her hands enthusiastically, and they determined to practice some easy songs to surprise the Professor. In the course of conversation Ilse confessed that she had seldom heard a concert, and occasionally when visiting in the neighborhood, had seen a play, but only one opera. "The piece was called the _Freischuetz_," said Ilse; "the heroine was the forester's daughter, and she had a friend just as merry, with beautiful locks and frank eyes like yours; and the man whom she loved lost his faith in the gracious protection of heaven, and in order to obtain the girl he denied God and surrendered himself to the Evil One. That was fearful; her heart became heavy and a foreboding came over her; but she did not lose her strength of mind, nor her trust in help from above; and her faith saved her lover, over whom the Evil One had already stretched out his hand." Then she accurately described the whole dramatic course of the action. "It was enchanting," she said. "I was very young, and when I came back to our hotel I could not compose myself and my father was obliged to scold me." Laura listened, sitting on a footstool at Ilse's feet; she held her hand fast and heard her account as a child listens to a tale she already knows. "How well you describe it; 'tis as if one was reading a poem." "Ah, no," exclaimed Ilse, shaking her head; "this compliment is just what I do not in the least deserve. I have never in my life made a verse and I am so prosaic that I do not know how my unpolished nature will adapt itself to the town, for here they write verses; they hum about in the air like flies in summer." "What do you mean?" asked Laura, hanging her head. "Only think, even I, a stranger, have received verses!" "That is quite natural," said Laura, folding her handkerchief to conceal her confusion.