Harz set a pot of coffee on a spirit-lamp, and cut himself some bread. Through the window the freshness of the morning came; the scent of sap and blossom and young leaves; the scent of earth, and the mountains freed from winter; the new flights and songs of birds; all the odorous, enchanted, restless Spring.
There suddenly appeared through the doorway a white rough-haired terrier dog, black-marked about the face, with shaggy tan eyebrows. He sniffed at Harz, showed the whites round his eyes, and uttered a sharp bark. A young voice called:
“Scruff! Thou naughty dog!” Light footsteps were heard on the stairs; from the distance a thin, high voice called:
“Greta! You mustn't go up there!”
A little girl of twelve, with long fair hair under a wide-brimmed hat, slipped in.
Her blue eyes opened wide, her face flushed up. That face was not regular; its cheek-bones were rather prominent, the nose was flattish; there was about it an air, innocent, reflecting, quizzical, shy.
“Oh!” she said.
Harz smiled: “Good-morning! This your dog?”
She did not answer, but looked at him with soft bewilderment; then running to the dog seized him by the collar.
“Scr-ruff! Thou naughty dog—the baddest dog!” The ends of her hair fell about him; she looked up at Harz, who said: