'Ah God, not to-night!'
'You have been ready enough on other nights,' the Queen said. And,
indeed, it was so much the practice of this lady to talk always of her
cousin, whose death had affrighted her, that often the Queen had begged
her to cease. But to-night she was willing to hear, for she felt afraid
of no omens, and, being joyful, was full of pity for the dead
unfortunate. She began with slow, long motions to withdraw the great
pins from her hair. The deep silence settled down again, and she hummed
the melancholy and stately tune that goes with the words--
_'When all the little hills are hid in snow,_
_And all the small brown birds by frost are slain,_
_And sad and slow_
_The silly sheep do go,_
_All seeking shelter to and fro--_
_Come once again_
_To these familiar, silent, misty lands----'_