“What do you mean, Zitli?” Honor wiped her eyes furtively, and tried to speak as cheerily as the boy did. “Was there some internal injury as well as—”
Zitli stared. “The insides of the musical boxes, naturally! What else, mademoiselle? Once I am perfect, I return to my Alps, since boxes may be made equally there, and nowhere else would life be agreeable to me. I think—” he knit his brows, and spoke slowly, as if considering; “I think to build a châlet—small, you understand, for one person—though there would be room for a guest always—I paint it green, the outside. That blends with the trees, you understand. The stones on the roof I paint white. That is contrast, variety. Inside, all is white, white as La Dumaine or that wicked Séraphine. Look, but look, mademoiselle! even now she tumbles poor Nanni over, her own aunt. Go, thou villain!”
He threw a stick at Séraphine, who bounded into the air with a shrill bleat and disappeared around the corner of the barn.
“There I live. Gretli has taught me to cook. I have the books that the good priest gave me, three or four magnificent books. There are none like them in this Alp. I have my tools, my zither, my mountains about me. I am happy as the day is long. Ah, that is a life to look forward to—always since the brother and sister must marry. That is natural, is it not so? But see, Gretli waves to us. It is to see her in her fine dress before Pierre comes.”
Boy and girl hobbled back to the châlet, Zitli going carefully and slow, and insisting that Honor keep pace with him. They found Gretli magnificent indeed in her Sunday dress; this was not clumsy like Atli’s, but the prettiest costume imaginable: the bright blue skirt very full, the black velvet bodice laced with crimson across the full white chemise. The latter was of heavy creamy linen, with wide sleeves coming to the elbow, the round neck embroidered in blue. Gretli’s superb hair hung in two heavy plaits below her waist, and perched on her head was an elaborate structure of stiff muslin, quaint but extremely becoming. A heavy necklace of silver beads and long silver ear-rings completed the gala dress of the mountain maiden. At sight of her, Honor clapped her hands with delight.
“Oh, Gretli, how beautiful you are! It is the prettiest costume I ever saw. Oh, how I wish Madame Madeleine would let us wear mountain dress!”
Gretli smiled with pleasure. She was delighted that it pleased mademoiselle. To be neat, to be not too ugly, it was to thank the good God for that; but not to dwell upon these matters, since, as her sainted mother had said, the spirit knows nothing of clothes, either red or blue.
“Oh,” cried Honor, “you have brought out the wonderful quilt. Gretli, are you going to finish it?”
Gretli nodded, blushing and smiling.
“Aha!” said Zitli, “that means that the wedding-day approaches. Is it not, my sister? Tell mademoiselle about that!”