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too the raindrops on the vines like a million tiny lamps； and the
throstle that began singing。 Then； as dreams die out into warm
nothingness； recollection vanished； and the smile came back to her
lips。
She took out a letter。
〃。。。。O Chris！ We are really coming； I seem to be always telling it
to myself； and I have told Scruff many times； but he does not care；
because he is getting old。 Miss Naylor says we shall arrive for
breakfast； and that we shall be hungry； but perhaps she will not be
very hungry； if it is rough。 Papa said to me： 'Je serai
inconsolable； mais inconsolable！' But I think he will not be；
because he is going to Vienna。 When we are come； there will be
nobody at Villa Rubein； Aunt Constance has gone a fortnight ago to
Florence。 There is a young man at her hotel； she says he will be one
of the greatest playwriters in England； and she sent me a play of his
to read； it was only a little about love； I did not like it very
much。。。。 O Chris！ I think I shall cry when I see you。 As I am quite
grown up； Miss Naylor is not to come back with me； sometimes she is
sad； but she will be glad to see you； Chris。 She seems always sadder
when it is Spring。 Today I walked along the wall； the little green
balls of wool are growing on the poplars already； and I saw one
chafer； it will not be long before the cherry blossom comes； and I
felt so funny； sad and happy together； and once I thought that I had
wings and could fly away up the valley to Meranbut I had none； so I
sat on the bench where we sat the day we took the pictures； and I
thought and thought； there was nothing came to me in my thoughts； but
all was sweet and a little noisy； and rather sad； it was like the
buzzing of the chafer； in my head； and now I feel so tired and all my
blood is running up and down me。 I do not mind； because I know it is
the Spring。
〃Dominique came to see us the other day； he is very well； and is half
the proprietor of the Adler Hotel； at Meran； he is not at all
different； and he asked about you and about Aloisdo you know；
Chris； to myself I call him Herr Harz； but when I have seen him this
time I shall call him Alois in my heart also。
〃I have a letter from Dr。 Edmund； he is in London； so perhaps you
have seen him； only he has a great many patients and some that he has
'hopes of killing soon'！ especially one old lady； because she is
always wanting him to do things for her； and he is never saying 'No；'
so he does not like her。 He says that he is getting old。 When I
have finished this letter I am going to write and tell him that
perhaps he shall see me soon； and then I think he will be very sad。
Now that the Spring is come there are more flowers to take to Uncle
Nic's grave； and every day； when I am gone； Barbi is to take them so
that he shall not miss you； Chris； because all the flowers I put
there are for you。
〃I am buying some toys without paint on for my niece。〃
〃O Chris！ this will be the first baby that I have known。〃
〃I am only to stay three weeks with you； but I think when I am once
there I shall be staying longer。 I send a kiss for my niece； and to
Herr Harz； my lovethat is the last time I shall call him Herr Harz；
and to you； Chris； all the joy that is in my heart。Your loving
〃GRETA。〃
Christian rose； and； turning very softly； stood； leaning her elbows
on the back of a high seat； looking at her husband。
In her eyes there was a slow； clear； faintly smiling； yet yearning
look； as though this strenuous figure bent on its task were seen for
a moment as something apart； and not all the world to her。
〃Tired？〃 asked Harz； putting his lips to her hand。
〃No； it's onlywhat Greta says about the Spring； it makes one want
more than one has got。
Slipping her hand away； she went back to the window。 Harz stood；
looking after her； then； taking up his palette； again began painting。
In the world； outside； the high soft clouds flew by； the trees seemed
thickening and budding。
And Christian thought：
'Can we never have quite enough？'
December l890。
TO
MY FATHER
A MAN OF DEVON
I
〃MOOR； 20th July 。
。。。。。。。It is quiet here； sleepy； rathera farm is never quiet； the
sea； too； is only a quarter of a mile away； and when it's windy； the
sound of it travels up the combe； for distraction； you must go four
miles to Brixham or five to Kingswear； and you won't find much then。
The farm lies in a sheltered spot； scooped； so to speak； high up the
combe sidebehind is a rise of fields； and beyond； a sweep of down。
You have the feeling of being able to see quite far； which is
misleading； as you soon find out if you walk。 It is true Devon
country…hills； hollows； hedge…banks； lanes dipping down into the
earth or going up like the sides of houses； coppices； cornfields； and
little streams wherever there's a place for one； but the downs along
the cliff； all gorse and ferns； are wild。 The combe ends in a sandy
cove with black rock on one side； pinkish cliffs away to the headland
on the other； and a coastguard station。 Just now； with the harvest
coming on； everything looks its richest； the apples ripening； the
trees almost too green。 It's very hot； still weather； the country
and the sea seem to sleep in the sun。 In front of the farm are half…
a…dozen pines that look as if they had stepped out of another land；
but all round the back is orchard as lush； and gnarled； and orthodox
as any one could wish。 The house； a long； white building with three
levels of roof； and splashes of brown all over it； looks as if it
might be growing down into the earth。 It was freshly thatched two
years agoand that's all the newness there is about it； they say the
front door； oak； with iron knobs； is three hundred years old at
least。 You can touch the ceilings with your hand。 The windows
certainly might be largera heavenly old place； though； with a
flavour of apples； smoke； sweetbriar； bacon； honeysuckle； and age；
all over it。
The owner is a man called John Ford； about seventy； and seventeen
stone in weightvery big； on long legs； with a grey； stubbly beard；
grey； watery eyes； short neck and purplish complexion； he is
asthmatic； and has a very courteous； autocratic manner。 His clothes
are made of Harris tweedexcept on Sundays； when he puts on blacka
seal ring； and a thick gold cable chain。 There's nothing mean or
small about John Ford； I suspect him of a warm heart； but he doesn't
let you know much about him。 He's a north…country man by birth； and
has been out in New Zealand all his life。 This little Devonshire
farm is all he has now。 He had a large 〃station〃 in the North
Island； and was much looked up to； kept open house； did everything；
as one would guess； in a narrow…minded； large…handed way。 He came to
grief suddenly； I don't quite know how。 I believe his only son lost
money on the turf； and then； unable to fac