To begin with the earliest.  There was a maid who dwelt in the Tower of the Wolfsberg opposite, called the Tower of the Captain of the Guard.  And the maid’s name was Elsa, or, as she was ordinarily called, “Christian’s Elsa.”  She was a comely maid enough, and greatly taken notice of.  And when I went to my window to con over my task for Friar Laurence, there at the opposite window would be—­strange that it should always he so—­Christian’s Elsa.  She was a little girl, short and plump, but with merry eyes and so bright a stain upon either cheek that it seemed as if she had been eating raspberry conserve, and had wiped her fingers upon the smiling plumpness there.

At any rate, as sure as ever I betook me to the window, there would be Christian’s Elsa, busy with her needles.

And to tell truth I misliked it not greatly.  Why, indeed, should I?  For there is surely no harm in looking across twenty yards of space at a maid, and as little in the maid looking at you—­that is, if neither of you come any nearer.  Besides, it is much pleasanter to look at a pretty lass than at a vacant wall and twenty yards of uneven cobble-stones.

Now the girl was harmless enough—­a red and white maid, plump as a partridge in the end of harvest.  She was forever humming at songs, singing little choruses, and inventing of new melodies, all tunefully and prettily enough.  And she would bring her dulcimer to the window and play them over, nodding her head to the instrument as she sang.

It was pleasant to watch her.  For sometimes when the music refused to run aright, she would frown at the dulcimer, as if the discord had been entirely its fault and it was old enough to know better.  Then sometimes she would look across abstractedly to the Red Tower, trying to recall a strain she had forgotten, with her finger all the while making the most bewitching dimple on her plump cheek.  It was most sweet and innocent to see.  And withal so entirely unconscious that any one could possibly be observing her.

I confess that I sat often and conned my book by the window, long after I knew my portion by heart, in order to watch her deft fingers upon the dulcimer sticks and the play of her dimples.  But on my part also this was in all innocence and wholly thoughtless of guile.

Then would I be taken with a spasm of desire to play upon the recorders or the Bavarian single flute, and would pester my father to let me learn.

Now I never had any more ear for music than a deal board that has knot-holes in it.  I had ears indeed.  But the clatter of the mill-wheel and the lapper of water on the stones of the shore were ever better music to me than singing or playing upon instruments.  Nevertheless, at this time, for some reason or other, I was in a great fret to learn.

And, curiously enough, my desire made the Little Playmate call me “Great Brother” more assiduously than ever.  Though again I knew not why.