Frightened by her own surmise,
Little hands, so white and dimpled,
Pressing on her sweet blue eyes.

Louder now the fir-trees rustle,
Spinning-wheel more harshly drones;
In their pauses sounds the cithern,
And the old song's simple tones:

"Do not fear, my tender nursling,
Aught of evil spirits' might;
For good angels still are watching
Round thy pathway day and night."

Now the fir-tree's dark-green fingers
Tap upon the window low,
And the moon, a yellow listener,
Casts within her sweetest glow.

Father, mother, both are sleeping,
Near at hand their rest they take;
But we two, in pleasant gossip,
Keep each other long awake.

"That thou prayest much too often,
Seems unlikely, I declare;
On thy lips there is a quiver
Which was never born of prayer.

"Ah! that heartless, cold expression