Stories by English Authors: Germany (Selected by Scribners) | Page 5

the tenderness of an angel's
touch."
"Listening to her," said the major, who had now recovered from his
annoyance at being interrupted, "one becomes unconscious of her
presence, for she is the music itself. And that is rare. It is but seldom
nowadays that we are allowed to forget the personality of the player.
And yet her personality is an unusual one; having once seen her, it

would not be easy to forget her. I should recognise her anywhere."
As he spoke, he glanced at the little tuner, and could not help admiring
her dignified composure under circumstances which might have been
distressing to any one; and when she rose with the others he followed
her, and said stiffly:
"I regret that I was the indirect cause of putting you in an awkward
position."
"It is really of no consequence," she said, brightly. "If you think I was
impertinent, I ask your forgiveness. I did not mean to be officious. The
words were spoken before I was aware of them."
She passed into the salon, where she found a quiet corner for herself,
and read some of the newspapers. No one took the slightest notice of
her; not a word was spoken to her; but when she relieved the company
of her presence her impertinence was commented on.
"I am sorry that she heard what I said," remarked Miss Blake; "but she
did not seem to mind. These young women who go out into the world
lose the edge of their sensitiveness and femininity. I have always
observed that."
"How much they are spared then!" answered some one.
Meanwhile the little girl slept soundly. She had merry dreams, and
finally woke up laughing. She hurried over her breakfast, and then
stood ready to go for a butterfly hunt. She looked thoroughly happy,
and evidently had found, and was holding tightly, the key to life's
enjoyment.
Oswald Everard was waiting on the balcony, and he reminded her that
he intended to go with her.
"Come along then," she answered; "we must not lose a moment."
They caught butterflies; they picked flowers; they ran; they lingered by

the wayside; they sang; they climbed, and he marvelled at her easy
speed. Nothing seemed to tire her, and everything seemed to delight
her--the flowers, the birds, the clouds, the grasses, and the fragrance of
the pine woods.
"Is it not good to live?" she cried. "Is it not splendid to take in the
scented air? Draw in as many long breaths as you can. Isn't it good?
Don't you feel now as though you were ready to move mountains? I do.
What a dear old nurse Nature is! How she pets us, and gives us the best
of her treasures!"
Her happiness invaded Oswald Everard's soul, and he felt like a
school-boy once more, rejoicing in a fine day and his liberty, with
nothing to spoil the freshness of the air, and nothing to threaten the
freedom of the moment.
"Is it not good to live?" he cried. "Yes, indeed it is, if we know how to
enjoy."
They had come upon some haymakers, and the little girl hastened up to
help them, laughing and talking to the women, and helping them to pile
up the hay on the shoulders of a broad-backed man, who then conveyed
his burden to a pear-shaped stack. Oswald Everard watched his
companion for a moment, and then, quite forgetting his dignity as an
amateur tenor singer, he too lent his aid, and did not leave off until his
companion sank exhausted on the ground.
"Oh," she laughed, "what delightful work for a very short time! Come
along; let us go into that brown chatlet yonder and ask for some milk. I
am simply parched with thirst. Thank you, but I prefer to carry my own
flowers."
"What an independent little lady you are!" he said.
"It is quite necessary in our profession, I can assure you," she said, with
a tone of mischief in her voice. "That reminds me that my profession is
evidently not looked upon with any favour by the visitors at the hotel. I
am heartbroken to think that I have not won the esteem of that lady in

the billycock hat. What will she say to you for coming out with me?
And what will she say of me for allowing you to come? I wonder
whether she will say, 'How unfeminine!' I wish I could hear her!"
"I don't suppose you care," he said. "You seem to be a wild little bird."
"I don't care what a person of that description says," replied his
companion.
"What on earth made you contradict the major at dinner last night?" he
asked. "I was not at the table, but some one told me of the incident; and
I felt