From the drawing-room, from Sara's boudoir, from her mother's bedroom, there was a charming view of the Park.

In the spring the fresh foliage of the trees, and the velvety softness of the grass, would be delicious; down in the broad white road, carriages were passing, horses cantering, happy-looking people in smart bonnets, in gorgeous mantles, driving about everywhere; children would be running up and down the paths in the Park, flower-sellers would stand offering their innocent wares to the passengers.

Jill would sit entranced by her mother's window watching them; the sunshine, the glitter, the hubbub, intoxicated her; she made up stories by the dozen, as her dark eyes followed the gay equipages.

When Fraeulein summoned her she went away reluctantly; the stories got into her head, and stopped there all the time she laboured through that long sonata.
'Why are your fingers all thumbs to-day, Fraeulein ?' Herr Schliefer would demand gloomily.

Jill, who was really fond of the stern old professor, hung her head and blushed guiltily.