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?'

December 1890.

TO

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
dipping down into the earth or going up like the sides of houses,
coppices, cornfields, and little streams wherever the