36/40 She had tuned them early in the evening by pouring water into them, as she had been taught to do in her old German village, and she wet her fingers and touched them to the tender forest hymn: "Now the woods are all sleeping." "He has stopped," said Mrs.Woods. "He is listening--play." The music filled the cabin. No tones can equal in sweetness the musical glasses, and the trembling nerves of Gretchen's fingers gave a spirit of pathetic pleading to the old German forest hymn. Over and over again she played the air, waiting for the word of Mrs.Woods to cease. "He is moving back toward the pines. |