peasant woman screwed up her sun-dried face, saying in
a low voice: "Please, gracious lady, help me to lift this basket!"

Christian stooped, but before she could raise it, Harz hoisted it up on
his back.

"All right," he nodded; "this good lady doesn't mind."

The woman, looking very much ashamed, walked along by Christian; she kept
rubbing her brown hands together, and saying; "Gracious lady, I would not
have wished. It is heavy, but I would not have wished."

"I'm sure he'd rather carry it," said Christian.

They had not gone far along the road, however, before the others passed
them in a carriage, and at the strange sight Miss Naylor could be seen
pursing her lips; Cousin Teresa nodding pleasantly; a smile on Dawney's
face; and beside him Greta, very demure. Harz began to laugh.

"What are you laughing at?" asked Christian.

"You English are so funny. You mustn't do this here, you mustn't do that
there, it's like sitting in a field of nettles. If I were to walk with
you without my coat, that little lady would fall off her seat." His
laugh infected Christian; they reached the station feeling that they knew
each other better.

The sun had dipped behind the mountains when the little train steamed
down the valley. All were subdued, and Greta, with a nodding head, slept
fitfully. Christian, in her corner, was looking out of the window, and
Harz kept studying her profile.

He tried to see her eyes. He had remarked indeed that, whatever their
expression, the brows, arched and rather wide apart, gave them a peculiar
look of understanding. He thought of his picture. There was nothing in
her face to seize on, it was too sympathetic, too much like light. Yet
her chin was firm, almost obstinate.

The train stopped with a jerk; she looked round at him. It was as though
she had said: "You are my friend."

At Villa Rubein, Herr Paul had killed the fatted calf for Greta's Fest.
When the whole party were assembled, he alone remained standing; and
waving his arm above the cloth, cried: "My dears! Your happiness! There
are good things here--Come!" And with a sly look, the air of a conjurer
producing rabbits, he whipped the cover off the soup tureen:

"Soup-turtle, fat, green fat!" He smacked his lips.

No servants were allowed, because, as Greta said to Harz:

"It is that we are to be glad this evening."

Geniality radiated from Herr Paul's countenance, mellow as a bowl of
wine. He toasted everybody,