the　proprietor　of　the　Adler　Hotel；　at　Meran；　he　is　not　at　all
  different；　and　he　asked　about　you　and　about　Aloisdo　you　know；
  Chris；　to　myself　I　call　him　Herr　Harz；　but　when　I　have　seen　him　this
  time　I　shall　call　him　Alois　in　my　heart　also。
  〃I　have　a　letter　from　Dr。　Edmund；　he　is　in　London；　so　perhaps　you
  have　seen　him；　only　he　has　a　great　many　patients　and　some　that　he　has
  'hopes　of　killing　soon'！　especially　one　old　lady；　because　she　is
  always　wanting　him　to　do　things　for　her；　and　he　is　never　saying　'No；'
  so　he　does　not　like　her。　　He　says　that　he　is　getting　old。　　When　I
  have　finished　this　letter　I　am　going　to　write　and　tell　him　that
  perhaps　he　shall　see　me　soon；　and　then　I　think　he　will　be　very　sad。
  Now　that　the　Spring　is　come　there　are　more　flowers　to　take　to　Uncle
  Nic's　grave；　and　every　day；　when　I　am　gone；　Barbi　is　to　take　them　so
  that　he　shall　not　miss　you；　Chris；　because　all　the　flowers　I　put
  there　are　for　you。
  〃I　am　buying　some　toys　without　paint　on　for　my　niece。〃
  〃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　lovethat　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　onlywhat　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：
  'Can　we　never　have　quite　enough？'
  December　l890。
  TO
  MY　FATHER
  A　MAN　OF　DEVON
  I
  〃MOOR；　20th　July　。
  。。。。。。。It　is　quiet　here；　sleepy；　rathera　farm　is　never　quiet；　the
  sea；　too；　is　only　a　quarter　of　a　mile　away；　and　when　it's　windy；　the
  sound　of　it　travels　up　the　combe；　for　distraction；　you　must　go　four
  miles　to　Brixham　or　five　to　Kingswear；　and　you　won't　find　much　then。
  The　farm　lies　in　a　sheltered　spot；　scooped；　so　to　speak；　high　up　the
  combe　sidebehind　is　a　rise　of　fields；　and　beyond；　a　sweep　of　down。
  You　have　the　feeling　of　being　able　to　see　quite　far；　which　is
  misleading；　as　you　soon　find　out　if　you　walk。　　It　is　true　Devon
  country…hills；　hollows；　hedge…banks；　lanes　dipping　down　into　the
  earth　or　going　up　like　the　sides　of　houses；　coppices；　cornfields；　and
  little　streams　wherever　there's　a　place　for　one；　but　the　downs　along
  the　cliff；　all　gorse　and　ferns；　are　wild。　　The　combe　ends　in　a　sandy
  cove　with　black　rock　on　one　side；　pinkish　cliffs　away　to　the　headland
  on　the　other；　and　a　coastguard　station。　　Just　now；　with　the　harvest
  coming　on；　everything　looks　its　richest；　the　apples　ripening；　the
  trees　almost　too　green。　　It's　very　hot；　still　weather；　the　country
  and　the　sea　seem　to　sleep　in　the　sun。　　In　front　of　the　farm　are　half…
  a…dozen　pines　that　look　as　if　they　had　stepped　out　of　another　land；
  but　all　round　the　back　is　orchard　as　lush；　and　gnarled；　and　orthodox
  as　any　one　could　wish。　　The　house；　a　long；　white　building　with　three
  levels　of　roof；　and　splashes　of　brown　all　over　it；　looks　as　if　it
  might　be　growing　down　into　the　earth。　　It　was　freshly　thatched　two
  years　agoand　that's　all　the　newness　there　is　about　it；　they　say　the
  front　door；　oak；　with　iron　knobs；　is　three　hundred　years　old　at
  least。　　You　can　touch　the　ceilings　with　your　hand。　　The　windows
  certainly　might　be　largera　heavenly　old　place；　though；　with　a
  flavour　of　apples；　smoke；　sweetbriar；　bacon；　honeysuckle；　and　age；
  all　over　it。
  The　owner　is　a　man　called　John　Ford；　about　seventy；　and　seventeen
  stone　in　weightvery　big；　on　long　legs；　with　a　grey；　stubbly　beard；
  grey；　watery　eyes；　short　neck　and　purplish　complexion；　he　is
  asthmatic；　and　has　a　very　courteous；　autocratic　manner。　　His　clothes
  are　made　of　Harris　tweedexcept　on　Sundays；　when　he　puts　on　blacka
  seal　ring；　and　a　thick　gold　cable　chain。　　There's　nothing　mean　or
  small　about　John　Ford；　I　suspect　him　of　a　warm　heart；　but　he　doesn't
  let　you　know　much　about　him。　　He's　a　north…country　man　by　birth；　and
  has　been　out　in　New　Zealand　all　his　life。　　This　little　Devonshire
  farm　is　all　he　has　now。　　He　had　a　large　〃station〃　in　the　North
  Island；　and　was　much　looked　up　to；　kept　open　house；　did　everything；
  as　one　would　guess；　in　a　narrow…minded；　large…handed　way。　　He　came　to
  grief　suddenly；　I　don't　quite　know　how。　　I　believe　his　only　son　lost
  money　on　the　turf；　and　then；　unable　to　face　his　father；　shot　himself；
  if　you　had　seen　John　Ford；　you　could　imagine　that。　　His　wife　died；
  too；　that　year。　　He　paid　up　to　the　last　penny；　and　came　home；　to　live
  on　this　farm。　　He　told　me　the　other　night　that　he　had　only　one
  relation　in　the　world；　his　granddaughter；　who　lives　here　with　him。
  Pasiance　Voiseyold　spelling　for　Patience；　but　they　pronounce；　it
  Pash…yenceis　sitting　out　here　with　me　at　this　moment　on　a　sort　of
  rustic　loggia　that　opens　into　the　orchard。　　Her　sleeves　are　rolled
  up；　and　she's　stripping　currants；　ready　for　black　currant　tea。　　Now
  and　then　she　rests　her　elbows　on　the　table；　eats　a　berry；　pouts　her
  lips；　and；　begins　again。　　She　has　a　round；　little　face；　a　long；
  slender　body；　cheeks　like　poppies；　a　bushy　mass　of　black…brown　hair；
  and　dark…brown；　almost　black；　eyes；　her　nose　is　snub；　her　lips　quick；
  red；　rather　full；　all　her　motions　quick　and　soft。　　She　loves　bright
  colours。　　She's　rather　like　a　little　cat；　sometimes　she　seems　all
  sympathy；　then　in　a　moment　as　hard　as　tortoise…shell。　　She's　all
  impulse；　yet　she　doesn't　like　to　show　her　feelings；　I　sometimes
  wonder　whether　she　has　any。　　She　plays　the　violin。
  It's　queer　to　see　these　two　together；　queer　and　rather　sad。　　The　old
  man　has　a　fierce　tenderness　for　her　that　strikes　into　the　very　roots
  of　him。　　I　see　him　torn　between　it；　and　his　cold　north…country　horror
  of　his　feelings；　his　life　with　her　is　an　unconscious　torture　to　him。
  She's　a　restless；　chafing　thing；　demure　enough　one　moment；　then
  flashing　out　into　mocking　speeches　or　hard　little　laughs。　　Yet　she's
  fond　of　him　in　her　fashion；　I　saw　her　kiss　him　once　when　he　was
  asleep。　　She　obeys　him　generallyin　a　way　as　if　she　couldn't　breathe
  while　she　was　doing　it。　　She's　had　a　queer　sort　of　education
  history；　geography；　elementary　mathematics；　and　nothing　else；　never
  been　to　school；　had　a　few　lessons　on　the　violin；　but　has　taught
  herself　most　of　what　she　knows。　　She　is　well　up　in　the　lore　of　birds；
  flowers；　and　insects；　has　three　cats；　who　follow　her　about；　and　is
  full　of　pranks。　　The　other　day　she　called　out　to　me；　〃I've　something
  for　you。　　Hold　out　your　hand　and　shut　your　eyes！〃　　It　was　a　large；
  black　slug！　　She's　the　child　of　the　old　fellow's　only　daughter；　who
  was　sent　home　for　schooling　at　Torquay；　and　made　a　runaway　match　with
  one　Richard　Voisey；　a　yeoman　farmer；　whom　she　met　in　the　hunting…
  field。　　John　Ford　was　furioushis　ancestors；　it　appears；　used　to
  lead　ruffians　on　the　Cumberland　side　of　the　Borderhe　looked　on
  〃Squire〃　Rick　Voisey　as　a　cut　below　him。　　He　was　called　〃Squire；〃　as
  far　as　I　can　make　out；　because　he　used　to　play　cards　every　evening
  with　a　parson　in　the　neighbourhood　who　went　by　the　name　of　〃Devil〃
  Hawkins。　　Not　that　the　Voisey　stock　is　to　be　despised。　　They　have　had
  this　farm　since　it　was　granted　to　one　Richard　Voysey　by　copy　dated
  8th　September；　13　Henry　VIII。　　Mrs。　Hopgood；　the　wife　of　the　bailiff…
  …a　dear；　quaint；　serene　old　soul　with　cheeks　like　a　rosy；　withered
  apple；　and　an　unbounded　love　of　Pasianceshowed　me　the　very
  document。
  〃I　kape　it；〃　she　said。　　〃Mr。　Ford　be　tu　proudbut　other　folks　be
  proud　tu。　　'Tis　a　pra…aper　old　fam'ly：　all　the　women　is　Margery；
  Pasiance；　or　Mary；　all　the　men's　Richards　an'　Johns　an'　Rogers；　old
  as　they　apple…trees。〃
  Rick　Voisey　was　a　rackety；　hunting　fellow；　and　〃dipped〃　the　old　farm
  up　to　its　thatched　roof。　　John　Ford　took　his　revenge　by　buying　up　the
  mortgages；　foreclosing；　and　commanding　his　daughter　and　Voisey　to　go
  on　living　here　rent　free；　this　they　dutifully　did　until　they　were
  both　killed　in　a　dog…cart　accident；　eight　years　ago。　　Old　Ford's
  financial　smash　came　a　year　later；　and　since　then　he's　lived　here
  with　Pasiance。　　I　fancy　it's　the　cross　in　her　blood　that　makes　her　so
  restless；　and　irresponsible：　if　she　had　been　all　a　native　she'd　have
  been　happy　enough　here；　or　all　a　stranger　like　John　Ford　himself；　but
  the　two　strains