“Dominique came to see us the other day; he is very well, and is half the proprietor of the Adler Hotel, at Meran; he is not at all different, and he asked about you and about Alois—do you know, Chris, to myself I call him Herr Harz, but when I have seen him this time I shall call him Alois in my heart also.
“I have a letter from Dr. Edmund; he is in London, so perhaps you have seen him, only he has a great many patients and some that he has ’hopes of killing soon’! especially one old lady, because she is always wanting him to do things for her, and he is never saying ‘No,’ so he does not like her. He says that he is getting old. When I have finished this letter I am going to write and tell him that perhaps he shall see me soon, and then I think he will be very sad. Now that the Spring is come there are more flowers to take to Uncle Nic’s grave, and every day, when I am gone, Barbi is to take them so that he shall not miss you, Chris, because all the flowers I put there are for you.
“I am buying some toys without paint on for my niece.”
“O Chris! this will be the first baby that I have known.”
“I am only to stay three weeks with you, but I think when I am once there I shall be staying longer. I send a kiss for my niece, and to Herr Harz, my love—that is the last time I shall call him Herr Harz; and to you, Chris, all the joy that is in my heart.—Your loving “Greta.”
Christian rose, and, turning very softly, stood, leaning her elbows on the back of a high seat, looking at her husband.
In her eyes there was a slow, clear, faintly smiling, yet yearning look, as though this strenuous figure bent on its task were seen for a moment as something apart, and not all the world to her.
“Tired?” asked Harz, putting his lips to her hand.
“No, it’s only—what Greta says about the Spring; it makes one want more than one has got.”
Slipping her hand away, she went back to the window. Harz stood, looking after her; then, taking up his palette, again began painting.
In the world, outside, the high soft clouds flew by; the trees seemed thickening and budding.
And Christian thought:
‘Can we never have quite enough?’
MY FATHER A MAN OF DEVON I
“Moor, 20th July.
.......It is quiet here, sleepy, rather--a farm is never quiet; the sea, too, is only a quarter of a mile away, and when it’s windy, the sound of it travels up the combe; for distraction, you must go four miles to Brixham or five to Kingswear, and you won’t find much then. The farm lies in a sheltered spot, scooped, so to speak, high up the combe side—behind is a rise of fields, and beyond, a sweep of down. You have the feeling of being able to see quite far, which is misleading, as you soon find out if you walk. It is true Devon country-hills, hollows, hedge-banks, lanes