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“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, 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 sill. Her saucy face was tilted to his.

He bent suddenly, and kissed it full on the mouth.

She started back, fetching him a ringing slap on the cheek.

“You ugly thing!” she said. She laughed.

Franz gazed serenely at the sky, a pleased smile on his lips.