His companion, who had thrown himself on the cool grass beside him, watched him admiringly. His glance shifted and rested on the book that lay on the grass. "What is it?—What is it, Sebastian?" he asked timidly. He put out an inquisitive finger toward the book.
Sebastian turned it quietly aside. "Let be," he said.
The boy flushed. "I was not going to touch it."
The other smiled, with his slow, generous eyes fixed on the boy's face. "Thou art a good boy, Erdman!" ... "It is only thy fingers that itch to know things." He patted them gently, where they lay on the grass beside him.
Erdman was still looking at the book. "Was it your brother's?" he asked in a half whisper.
"Christoph's?" Sebastian shook his head. "No, it is mine—my own."
The soft wind was among the blossoms overhead—they fell in petals, one by one, upon the quiet figures.
"Want to know 'bout it?" asked Sebastian, half turning to meet his companion's eye.
The boy nodded.
"It's mine. I copied it, every note—six months it took me—from Christoph's book."