t," he said simply; "ja, that is right--it hurts."

They stood looking at each other in the dim light. The child's eyes
studied the big face wistfully.

"I wish you would never play it again."

"Not play my 'Erlkoenig!'" He glared at her.

She nodded slowly.

"Never," she said.

He waited a moment, looking at her sternly. He pushed his spectacles far
up on the short curls and rubbed his nose vigorously.

The child's eyes waited on the queer, perturbed face. She gave a quick
little sigh. Her lips had parted.

He looked down with a sudden big smile.

"I will never play it for you again," he said grandly. The spectacles
descended swiftly, the door banged behind him, and the child was left
alone in the great dim hall.

II

The heat of the day was nearly spent, but the leaves of the oaks hung
motionless. The two young men walking beneath them had bared their
heads. One of them glanced up now and then, as if looking for coolness
in the green canopy.

"It will rain before night," said the baron, casually, noting the
glance. His lithe figure, in its white suit and blue tie, showed no sign
of heat or fatigue.

The musician, puffing beside him, wiped a handkerchief across his warm
face.

"Ja, it will rain," he assented hopefully.

The baron glanced at him, smiling.

"You find ten miles a good stretch," he remarked. "We went too far,
perhaps."

"Nein, not too far. We have had great talk," responded Schubert. His
face under its mask of perspiration shone gloriously. He glanced down a
little ruefully at his short, fat legs in their white casings. "But my
legs they do not talk," he announced naively. "Ja, they are very weary,
perhaps; but my soul is not weary." He struck his breast a resounding
blow with the palm of his hand and straightened his short body.

The baron laughed musically.

A low, sweet sound, stealing among the oaks, answered the laugh. They
stopped short, looking at each other. The sound came again, a far-off,
haunting peal, with a little catch and sob in its breath.

They stole swiftly forward on tiptoe. Among the trees a roof and the
outline of a small building glimmered. It was covered with dark ivy.
Smoke came from the chimney, and through the open window drifted the
strange, alluring sound.

"The house of the little folk of the wood," whispered Schubert, pressing
forward.

"The wash-house," returned the baron, with a laugh.

The sound had ceased. The wood, in the soft heat,