ing is coming, and spring without the singing of birds is a
deaf and dumb spring."

"Come to England. There's where you hear birds."

"You come to Germany, Miss Burns. There's where you hear birds,"
Frederick mimicked his friend's drawl.

When the time came for him to sit up for a while, he refused.

"I don't want to get out of bed. I feel too comfortable lying here," he
declared.

Soon after the fever left him, he ceased to feel ill, and for the last
week they had been bringing him books, entertaining him with stories and
anecdotes of the neighbourhood, and reading the papers to him, all in
moderation, of course. They divined his wishes from his eyes. His
microscope was put beside his bed, and he set seriously to work to
examine specimens from his own body, an occupation that brought many
jests down on him. The horror of his illness had turned into a diversion,
a pleasant subject of study.

It was not until he had left his bed and was sitting in a comfortable
chair wrapped in blankets that he inquired whether a letter had not
come from his parents. Miss Burns told him his father had written and
recounted those things in his letter which she knew would please
Frederick and ease his mind. She was astonished to hear the pale
convalescent say:

"I am convinced poor Angele took her own life. Well," he continued, "I
have suffered what I had to suffer; but I will not reject the hand that I
feel is graciously extended towards me. By that I mean," he added,
thinking from the expression in Miss Burns's eyes that she did not
understand him, "that for a' that and a' that, I am glad to be restored
to life and confidence in life."

One day, while Miss Burns was telling of some eminent men in different
countries with whom she had become acquainted, mild complaints escaped
her, showing she had suffered disenchantments.

"In a year," she said, "I am going back to England, to some village, and
devote myself to the education of neglected children. The sculptor's
profession does not satisfy me."

"How would you like this, Miss Burns," said the convalescent, with a
frank, roguish smile, "wouldn't you like to educate a rather difficult
big child?"

Peter and Eva had agreed not to mention Ingigerd Hahlstroem's name. But
one day Frederick handed Miss Burns a piece of paper with a verse written
in lead pencil in a trembling hand.

"To whom does this refer?" he asked.

"Have threads been spun? No, there were none!
We were