d now I
feel so tired and all my blood is running up and down me. I do not mind,
because I know it is the Spring.

"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?'

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 on