“But it is not true,” she consoled herself. “There now, if the nightingale sings tonight, it will be a sign that what I’m thinking is all nonsense, and I need not despair,” thought she. And she long sat in silence waiting for something, while again all became bright and full of life, and then again and again the cloudlets ran across the moon, making everything dim. She was beginning to fall asleep as she sat by the window, when the quivering trills of a nightingale came ringing from below, across the pond, and woke her. The country maiden opened her eyes. And once more her soul was renewed with fresh joy by this mysterious union with this nature which spread out so calmly and so brightly before her. She leant on both elbows. A sweet, languid feeling of sadness pressed her heart, and tears of pure, broad love, thirsting to be satisfied⁠—good, comforting tears⁠—filled her eyes. She folded her arms on the windowsill and laid her head on them. Her favourite prayer rose to her mind, and so she fell asleep with her eyes still moist.