“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 love—that 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 only—what 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: