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 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.

“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. We discover in these songs our very inmost activities and sufferings: it is as if we all had helped to write them.”

He took up another sheet: I stood on the mountain height..."

“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.

The mother meanwhile sat busy with her needlework, while Eric listened attentively, with one hand clasped in the other. The song finished, Reinhard laid the sheet on one side in silence. Up from the lake-shore came through the evening calm the tinkle of the cattle bells; they were all listening without knowing why, and presently they heard a boy’s clear voice singing:

I stood on the mountain height
And viewed the deep valley beneath....

Reinhard smiled. “Do you hear that now? So it passes from mouth to mouth.”

“It is often sung in these parts,” said Elisabeth.

Yes, said Eric, it is Casper the herdsman; he is driving the heifers home."

They listened a while longer until the tinkle of the bells died away behind the farm buildings. “These melodies are as old as the world,” said Reinhard; “they slumber in the depths of the forest; God knows who discovered them.”

He drew forth a fresh sheet.

It had now grown darker; a crimson evening glow lay like foam over the woods in the farther side of the lake. Reinhard unrolled the sheet, Elisabeth caught one side of it in her hand, and they both examined it together. Then Reinhard read:

By my mother’s hard decree
Another’s wife I needs must be;
Him on whom my heart was set,
Him, alas! I must forget;
My heart protesting, but not free.

Bitterly did I complain
That my mother brought me pain.
What mine honour might have been,
That is turned to deadly sin.
Can I ever hope again?

For my pride what can I show,
And my joy, save grief and woe?
Oh! could I undo what’s done,
O’er the moor scorched by the sun
Beggarwise I’d gladly go.

During the reading of this Reinhard had felt an imperceptible quivering of the paper; and when he came to an end Elisabeth gently pushed her chair back and passed silently out into the garden. Her mother followed her with a look. Eric made as if to go after, but the mother said:

“Elisabeth has one or two little things to do outside,” so he remained where he was.

But out of doors the evening brooded darker and darker over garden and lake. Moths whirred past the open doors through which the fragrance of flower and bush floated in increasingly; up from the water came the croak of the frogs, under the windows a nightingale commenced his song answered by another from within the depths of the garden; the moon appeared over the tree-tops.

Reinhard looked for a little while longer at the spot where Elisabeth’s sweet form had been lost to sight in the thick-foliaged garden paths, and then he rolled up his manuscript, bade his friends good-night and passed through the house down to the water.

The woods stood silent and cast their dark shadow far out over the lake, while the centre was bathed in the haze of a pale moonlight. Now and then a gentle rustle trembled through the trees, though wind there was none; it was but the breath of summer night.

Reinhard continued along the shore. A stone’s throw from the land he perceived a white water-lily. All at once he was seized with the desire to see it quite close, so he threw off his clothes and entered the water. It was quite shallow; sharp stones and water plants cut his feet, and yet he could not reach water deep enough for him to swim in.

Then suddenly he stepped out of his depth: the waters swirled above him; and it was some time before he rose to the surface again. He struck out with hands and feet and swam about in a circle until he had made quite sure from what point he had entered the water. And soon too he saw the lily again floating lonely among the large, gleaming leaves.

He swam slowly out, lifting every now and then his arms out of the water so that the drops trickled down and sparkled in the moonlight. Yet the distance between him and the flower showed no signs of diminishing, while the shore, as he glanced back at it, showed behind him in a hazy mist that ever deepened. But he refused to give up the venture and vigorously continued swimming in the same direction.

At length he had come so near the flower that he was able clearly to distinguish the silvery leaves in the moonlight; but at the same time he felt himself entangled in a net formed by the smooth stems of the water plants which swayed up from the bottom and wound themselves round his naked limbs.

The unfamiliar water was black all round about him, and behind him he heard the sound of a fish leaping. Suddenly such an uncanny feeling overpowered him in the midst of this strange element that with might and main he tore asunder the network of plants and swam back to land in breathless haste. And when from the shore he looked back upon the lake, there floated the lily on the bosom of the darkling water as far away and as lonely as before.

He dressed and slowly wended his way home. As he passed out of the garden into the room he discovered Eric and the mother busied with preparations for a short journey which had to be undertaken for business purposes on the morrow.

“Where ever have you been so late in the dark?” the mother called out to him.

“I?” he answered, “oh, I wanted to pay a call on the water-lily, but I failed.”

“That’s beyond the comprehension of any man,” said Eric. “What on earth had you to do with the water-lily?”

“Oh, I used to be friends with the lily once,” said Reinhard; “but that was long ago.”