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words as they came to her mind, then again hum the melody
alone. Her lute was in her hand, but she was not playing it,
only touching the strings sometimes and calling out a few
clear, long-sounding notes. It was one of those pleasant
little pensive songs that make the cushions softer and the
room warmer; one of those gently flowing airs that seem
to sing themselves in their indolent wistfulness, while they
give the voice a delicious roundness and fullness of tone.
Marie was sitting in the light from the fire, and its beams
played around her, while she sang in careless enjoyment,
as if caressing herself with her own voice.
The little door opened, and Ulrik Frederik bent his tall
form to enter. Marie stopped singing instantly.
“Ah, madam!” exclaimed Ulrik Frederik in a tone of
gentle remonstrance, making a gesture of appeal, as he
came up to her. “Had I known that you would allow my
presence to incommode you —”
“No, truly, I was but singing to keep my dreams awake.”
“Pleasant dreams?” he asked, bending over the fire-dogs
before the grate and warming his hands on the bright
copper balls.
“Dreams of youth,” replied Marie, passing her hand
over the strings of the lute.
“Ay, that was ever the way of old age,” and he smiled
at her.
Marie was silent a moment, then suddenly spoke: “One
may be full young and yet have old dreams.”
“How sweet the odor of musk in here! But was my
humble person along in these ancient dreams, madam?—if
I may make so bold as to ask.”
“Ah, no!”
“And yet there was a time—”
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