One painting especially captivated her attention. It was an “Interior” of a German peasant home. In her childhood Octave had seen dozens just such homes, and in one of them she had passed some of the merriest days she could remember.
“Oh! I do believe that was painted for a portrait of dear old Hans Schwartz! And that is Gretchen with the baby—it really, really is! Oh, who could have done that, and how did it come here? Good evening, Hans; hast thou the white cow already milked? And may I have some of the foaming liquid for supper? Gretchen’s brown bread would taste so good this very minute. Give it, Gretchen, and I’ll nurse the baby for you.” She had thought herself entirely alone when she entered the apartment, and she had forgotten everything else but delight at finding here a real—she was certain it was a real—portrait of some of her oldest friends. So thinking, she had not feared to talk aloud to them; and she was recalled to herself by the sharp surprise of hearing a voice close to her elbow.
“You seem to be impressed with that picture.”
Octave wheeled around, too unconscious of herself to be abashed.
“Oh, but I have been in that very kitchen—I surely have, and drank my milk out of one of those very earthen bowls! I don’t know who painted it, or how in the world it came here and I came to see it, but that is Hans Schwartz’s cottage at Erding, where we children have passed three summers and had such fun.” Octave paused in her eagerness, recalled to the time and place by the striking of a clock somewhere near.
The clear radiance of shaded electric lights suffused the apartment, which the girl now observed was simply but elegantly arranged. For the first time a feeling of timidity stole over her, and a sense that she had intruded arose to trouble her. It might be that she had made a mistake; if so, the only thing left for her to do was to get away as quickly as she could. She looked into the face of the old man who had spoken to her, and noticed with satisfaction that he was as simply attired and as every-day-like in his appearance as herself.
“Can you tell me, sir, if it would be possible for me to have a few minutes’ conversation with the gentleman who owns this house,—the great professor of chemistry, and—lots of other things?”
The old man smiled. “On what subject, my child?” He did not disconcert her as the liveried servant had done, and, if he was surprised to see her occupying the great man’s gallery, and enjoying his pictures without leave or license, he was too kindly to say so.
“This dear old fellow is somebody’s grandfather,” thought Octave, reminded by his gentleness of Grandmother Amy; “I wonder if he is a sort of upper servant; he looks as if he felt at home.” Aloud she said:—
“I had rather not try to explain it to any one except the professor, or to some one he will recommend, if he is too busy to see me. It is about a discovery that a boy made. I don’t understand it myself, but the boy wrote it all down on paper, and I have seen it act. I do hope he will see me, for I believe he would be interested, if he heard the whole story.”