“I do not see how we can refuse to help Catrina,” said Paul, in a voice which Steinmetz seemed to know, for he suddenly gave in.

“As you will,” he said.

He sat up, and, drawing a small table toward him, took up a pen reflectively.  Paul watched him in silence.

When the letter was finished, Steinmetz read it aloud: 

“My Dear Catrina: 

“The Moscow doctor and your obedient servant will be (D.V.) in Thors by seven o’clock to-night.  We propose spending about an hour in the village, if you will kindly advise the starosta to be ready for us.  As our time is limited, and we are much needed in Osterno, we shall have to deprive ourselves of the pleasure of calling at the castle.  The prince sends kind remembrances, and proposes riding over to Thors to avail himself of your proffered hospitality in a day or two.  With salutations to the countess,

“Your old friend,

“Karl Steinmetz.”

Steinmetz waited with the letter in his hand for Paul’s approval.  “You see,” he explained, “you are notoriously indifferent to the welfare of the peasants.  It would be unnatural if you suddenly displayed so much interest as to induce you to go to Thors on a mission of charity.”

Paul nodded.  “All right,” he said.  “Yes, I see; though I confess I sometimes forget what the deuce I am supposed to be.”

Steinmetz laughed pleasantly as he folded the letter.  He rose and went to the door.

“I will send it off,” he said.  He paused on the threshold and looked back gravely.  “Do not forget,” he added, “that Catrina Lanovitch loves you.”

CHAPTER XII

AT THORS

Below the windows of a long, low, stone house, in its architecture remarkably like a fortified farm—­below these deep-embrasured windows the river Oster mumbled softly.  One of the windows was wide open, and with the voice of the water a wonderful music rolled out to mingle and lose itself in the hum of the pine-woods.

The room was a small one; beneath the artistic wall-paper one detected the outline of square-hewn stones.  There were women’s things lying about; there were flowers in a bowl on a low, strong table.  There were a few good engravings on the wall; deep-curtained windows, low chairs, a sofa, a fan.  But it was not a womanly room.  The music filling it, vibrating back from the grim stone walls, was not womanly music.  It was more than manly.  It was not earthly, but almost divine.  It happened to be Grieg, with the halting beat of a disabled, perhaps a broken, heart in it, as that master’s music usually has.

The girl was alone in the room.  The presence of any one would have silenced something that was throbbing at the back of the chords.  Quite suddenly she stopped.  She knew how to play the quaint last notes.  She knew something that no master had ever taught her.