ing else to do."

Herr Paul looked at him dubiously--ever since the previous day he had
been thinking: 'Queer bird, that painter--thinks himself the devil of
a swell! Looks a determined fellow too!' Now--staring in the painter's
face--it seemed to him, on the whole, best if some one else refused this
permission.

"With all the pleasure, my dear sir," he said. "Come, let us ask these
two young ladies!" and putting down his hose, he led the way towards the
arbour, thinking: 'You'll be disappointed, my young conqueror, or I'm
mistaken.'

Miss Naylor and the girls were sitting in the shade, reading La
Fontaine's fables. Greta, with one eye on her governess, was stealthily
cutting a pig out of orange peel.

"Ah! my dear dears!" began Herr Paul, who in the presence of Miss
Naylor always paraded his English. "Here is our friend, who has a very
flattering request to make; he would paint you, yes--both together,
alfresco, in the air, in the sunshine, with the birds, the little
birds!"

Greta, gazing at Harz, gushed deep pink, and furtively showed him her
pig.

Christian said: "Paint us? Oh no!"

She saw Harz looking at her, and added, slowly: "If you really wish it,
I suppose we could!" then dropped her eyes.

"Ah!" said Herr Paul raising his brows till his glasses fell from
his nose: "And what says Gretchen? Does she want to be handed up to
posterities a little peacock along with the other little birds?"

Greta, who had continued staring at the painter, said:
"Of--course--I--want--to--be."

"Prrt!" said Herr Paul, looking at Miss Naylor. The little lady indeed
opened her mouth wide, but all that came forth was a tiny squeak, as
sometimes happens when one is anxious to say something, and has not
arranged beforehand what it shall be.

The affair seemed ended; Harz heaved a sigh of satisfaction. But Herr
Paul had still a card to play.

"There is your Aunt," he said; "there are things to be considered--one
must certainly inquire--so, we shall see." Kissing Greta loudly on both
cheeks, he went towards the house.

"What makes you want to paint us?" Christian asked, as soon as he was
gone.

"I think it very wrong," Miss Naylor blurted out.

"Why?" said Harz, frowning.

"Greta is so young--there are lessons--it is such a waste of time!"

His eyebrows twitched: "Ah! You think so!"

"I don't see why it is a waste of time," said Christian quietly; "there
are lots of hours when we sit here and do nothing."

"And