was very still.

"It is Marka," said the baron, glancing toward the house. "Marka has
charge of the linen. I heard her the other day, in one of the corridors,
singing; but Fritz hushed her up before she'd begun. She's a
Hungarian----"

"Hush!" Schubert lifted a finger.

The music had begun again. The sadness was gone from it. It laughed and
smiled to itself, and grew merry in a sweet, shy fashion that set the
air about them astir in little rippling runs.

Schubert had started forward.

"I must have it!" he said impetuously.

"Take care!" warned Schoenstein; "she is a witch."

The musician laughed, stealing away among the tree-trunks. He moved
softly forward, his short fingers fumbling at his pockets. A torn
envelope and the stub of a pencil rewarded the search. His face lighted
as he grasped the pencil more firmly in his fingers, moistening it at
his thick lips; he approached the open window.

He peered uncertainly into the dim room. By the fireplace stood a lithe,
quick figure, sorting the pile of linen at her side. As she lifted each
delicate piece she examined it for holes or rents. Careless little
snatches of song played about her lips as she worked.

The torn envelope rested on the sill, and the stubby pencil flew across
its surface. The big face of the musician, bent above it, was alight
with joy. The sound ceased, and he straightened himself, pushing back
the hat from his brow, and gazing fondly at the little dots on the torn
bit of paper.

The girl looked up with a start. The shadow had fallen on her linen. She
gazed with open, incredulous lips at the uncouth figure framed in the
window.

A broad smile wreathed the big face.

"Go on, Marka," he said. He nodded encouragement.

She looked down at the pillow-slip in her hands, and back again to the
face in the window. The linen slip was plaited uncertainly in her
fingers.

"Go on," said Schubert peremptorily. "You were singing. What was it,
that tune? Go on."

She looked up again with bold shyness, and shook her head.

The face glared at her.

She smiled saucily, and, putting two plump hands into her apron pockets,
advanced toward the window. Her steps danced a little.

Franz stared at the vision. He took off his spectacles and rubbed them,
blinking a little.

"Waugh!" he said.

She laughed musically.

He replaced the spectacles, and looked at her more kindly.

She was leaning on the other side of the casing, her arms folded on the
s