The girl had fallen upon her knees at the window, and was making little, tentative, whistling sounds. She was trying to catch the notes of her blackbird-song! First one note she would try, and then another; and each one, as she tried it, broke off in midair, ineffectual and futile.⁠ ⁠… Her fingers were clutching the windowsill now, and her head was tossed back. The gown he had thrown over her had fallen away. Her shoulders looked cold and pitiful. Her body trembled and swayed. Her back being turned to him, he could not see that desperately pursed-up whistling mouth; but most vividly he imagined it, and imagined too the piteous contortion of that face against the warm, green-growing darkness outside.

“Gerda⁠ ⁠… my darling!” This was what he wanted to cry out; but he did not dare to utter a whisper. The room had become enchanted. It was a dedicated place⁠—set apart⁠ ⁠… and there was he, foolishly propped up on their two pillows, mute, helpless, like a witness at the birth of a stillborn child!

Again and again did the girl make desperate, discordant, whistling sounds; but it was all to no purpose!