it
is so early, so I have been waiting for you a quarter of an hour."

Selecting a rosebud, from some flowers in her hand, she handed it to
him. "That is my first rosebud this year," she said; "it is for you
because you are painting me. To-day I am thirteen, Herr Harz; there is
not to be a sitting, because it is my birthday; but, instead, we are all
going to Meran to see the play of Andreas Hofer. You are to come too,
please; I am here to tell you, and the others shall be here directly."

Harz bowed: "And who are the others?"

"Christian, and Dr. Edmund, Miss Naylor, and Cousin Teresa. Her husband
is ill, so she is sad, but to-day she is going to forget that. It is not
good to be always sad, is it, Herr Harz?"

He laughed: "You could not be."

Greta answered gravely: "Oh yes, I could. I too am often sad. You are
making fun. You are not to make fun to-day, because it is my birthday.
Do you think growing up is nice, Herr Harz?"

"No, Fraulein Greta, it is better to have all the time before you."

They walked on side by side.

"I think," said Greta, "you are very much afraid of losing time. Chris
says that time is nothing."

"Time is everything," responded Harz.

"She says that time is nothing, and thought is everything," Greta
murmured, rubbing a rose against her cheek, "but I think you cannot have
a thought unless you have the time to think it in. There are the others!
Look!"

A cluster of sunshades on the bridge glowed for a moment and was lost in
shadow.

"Come," said Harz, "let's join them!"

At Meran, under Schloss Tirol, people were streaming across the meadows
into the open theatre. Here were tall fellows in mountain dress, with
leather breeches, bare knees, and hats with eagles' feathers; here were
fruit-sellers, burghers and their wives, mountebanks, actors, and every
kind of visitor. The audience, packed into an enclosure of high boards,
sweltered under the burning sun. Cousin Teresa, tall and thin, with
hard, red cheeks, shaded her pleasant eyes with her hand.

The play began. It depicted the rising in the Tyrol of 1809: the village
life, dances and yodelling; murmurings and exhortations, the warning
beat of drums; then the gathering, with flintlocks, pitchforks, knives;
the battle and victory; the homecoming, and festival. Then the second
gathering, the roar of cannon; betrayal, capture, death. The impassive
figure of the patriot Andreas Hofer always in front, black-bearded,
leathern-girdled,