In the midst of all this Ella seemed to hear two little cries of “Mamma, mamma!” When she looked round for her companion he was sitting on the sledge, quite overcome, while tears flowed down his cheeks.

They drove on again, but slowly.  “I remember this muddy road,” said he; his voice sounded very sad.  “The trees shaded it so that it was hardly ever dry, but now it is beautiful.”

She turned and raised her head towards him.  “Ah! sing a little,” she said.

He did not answer at once, and she regretted that she had asked him; at length he said: 

“I was thinking of it, but I became so agitated; do not speak for a moment and then perhaps I can—­the old winter song, that is to say.”

She understood that he could not do so until he completely realised it.  These silent enthusiasts were indeed fastidious about what was genuine.  Most things were not genuine enough for them.  That is why they are so prone to intoxicate themselves; they wish to get away, to form a world for themselves.  Yes, now he sang: 

  In winter’s arms doth summer sleep
    By winter covered calm she lay,
    “Still!” he cried to the river’s play,
  To farm, and field and mountain steep. 
    Silence reigns o’er hill and dale,
    No sound at home save ringing flail.

  All that summer loved to see
    Till she returns sleeps safely on. 
    In needed rest, the summer gone,
  Sleep water, meadow-grass and tree,
    Hid like the kernel in the nut
    The earth lies crumbling round each root.

  All the ills which summer knew,
    Pest and blight for life and fruit
    Winter’s hosts have put to rout. 
  In peace she shall awake again
    Purified by winds and snows,
    Peace shall greet her as she goes.

  A lovely dream has winter strown
    On the sleeping mountain height;
    Star high, pale in northern light,
  From sight to sight it bears her on
    Through the long, long hours of night,
    Till she wakes shall be her flight.

  He who we say brings naught but pain
    Lives but for that he ne’er shall see. 
    He who is called a murderer, he
  Preserves each year our land again,
    Then hides himself by crag and hill
    Till evening’s breeze again blows chill.

All the little sleigh-bells accompanied the song, like the twitter of sparrows.  His voice echoed through the trees, the religious service of a human soul in the white halls.

One day, felt Ella, paid for a thousand.  One day may do what the winter song relates.  It may rock a weary summer, destroy its germs of ill, renew the earth, make the nerves strong, and the darkest time bright.  In it are collected all our long dreams.  What might she not have become, poor little thing that she was, if she had had many such days?  What would she not then have become, for her children.