his work.
Whenever he appealed to Annele to admire some tone that gave him
peculiar satisfaction, she would answer: "O, it is nothing to me. I am
really afraid your work will be the ruin of you; it will never repay
you for the time you spend on it. The way to make a fortune is to turn
off things quick, and not quiddle so over them."

"I know my own work best, Annele."

"If you know best, you have no need to talk to me. I can only speak
according as I understand. If you want a post for a listener you had
better go down to the doctor's and borrow one. There are plenty of
painted red lips there that will speak never a word."

Days passed, and the spring that now broke in glory over the earth
seemed to bring fresh life on the Morgenhalde. The landlady often came
up and revelled in the good warm sun. The landlord, who had grown more
of a growler than ever, seldom appeared. Annele openly withdrew herself
more and more from her parents, and clung with increasing tenderness to
Lenz. Of a Sunday morning or a holiday afternoon they often went
together into the forest, where he had set up a bench among his
father-in-law's trees. "Hark to that bird," said he, one day, as they
were sitting there in a happy mood. "He is the true singer, caring
nothing whether any hear him or not, but making music for himself and
his mate, just as I do." And Lenz sent his voice blithely into the
echoing wood.

"Yes," answered Annele, "and for that reason you ought to resign your
place in the Liederkranz; it is no longer a fit society for you. As a
bachelor you might keep company with Faller and the rest, if you chose,
but for the head of a family it is not the thing. Besides, you are too
old to sing."

"I old? Why, I am born new every spring. I was just fancying myself
still a child, building a boat with my dead brother. How happy we
were!"

"One would think your whole life had been a miracle. What do you mean
by talking so?"

"You are right. I must learn to be old; I am almost as old as this
forest. I remember, as a child, there were very few large trees here;
most of the wood was of young saplings, and now it has grown high above
our heads, and, thank Heaven, is our own."

"How our own? Has my father made it over to you?"

"No, it is still his,--that is, his with certain restrictions. He has
no right to cut it wholly down, because it is all that keeps our house
from being buried under the snow or the mountain itself."

"Don't talk so.