style="font-size:15px;"> “So it would seem. I have been unfortunate from the first, though I was careful to admire ‘mine crazy jug.’”
“It is the apple of her eye,” laughed Iris, “it means to her just what his Cremona means to him.”
“It is a wonderful creation, and I told her so, but where in the dickens did she get the idea?”
“Don’t ask me. Did you happen to notice anything else?”
“No – only the violin. Sometimes I take my lesson in the parlour, sometimes in the shop downstairs, or even in Herr Kaufmann’s bedroom, which opens off of it. When I come, he stops whatever he happens to be doing, sits down, and proceeds with my education.”
“On the floor,” said Iris reminiscently, “she has a gold jar which contains cat tails and grasses. It is Herr Kaufmann’s silk hat, which he used to have when he played in the famous orchestra, with the brim cut off and plenty of gold paint put on. The gilded potato-masher, with blue roses on it, which swings from the hanging lamp, was done by your humble servant. She has loved me ever since.”
“Iris!” exclaimed Lynn, reproachfully. “How could you!”
“How could I what?”
“Paint anything so outrageous as that?”
“My dear boy,” said Miss Temple, patronisingly, with her pretty head a little to one side, “you are young in the ways of the world. I was not achieving a work of art; I was merely giving pleasure to the Fräulein. Much trouble would be saved if people who undertake to give pleasure would consult the wishes of the recipient in preference to their own. Tastes differ, as even you may have observed. Personally, I have no use for a gilded potato-masher – I couldn’t even live in the same house with one, – but I was pleasing her, not myself.”
“I wonder what I could do that would please her,” said Lynn, half to himself.
“Make her something out of nothing,” suggested Iris. “She would like that better than anything else. She has a wall basket made of a fish broiler, a chair that was once a barrel, a dresser which has been evolved from a packing box, a sofa that was primarily a cot, and a match box made from a tin cup covered with silk and gilded on the inside, not to mention heaps of other things.”
“Then what is left for me? The desirable things seem to have been used up.”
“Wait,” said Iris, “and I’ll show you.” She ran off gaily, humming a little song under her breath, and came back presently with a clothes-pin, a sheet of orange-coloured tissue paper, an old black ostrich feather, and her paints.
“What in the world – ” began Lynn.
“Don’t be impatient, please. Make the clothes-pin gold, with a black head, and then I’ll show you what to do next.”
“Aren’t you going to help me?”
“Only with my valuable advice – it is your gift, you know.”
Awkwardly, Lynn gilded the clothes-pin and suspended it from the back of a chair to dry. “I hope she’ll like it,” he said. “She pointed to me once and said something in German to her brother. I didn’t understand, but I remembered the words, and when I got home I looked them up in my dictionary. As nearly as I could get it, she had characterised me as ‘a big, lumbering calf.’”
“Discerning woman,” commented Iris. “Now, take this sheet of tissue paper and squeeze it up into a little ball, then straighten it out and do it again. When it’s all soft and crinkly, I’ll tell you what to do next.”
“There,” exclaimed Lynn, finally, “if it’s squeezed up any more it will break.”
“Now paint the head of the clothes-pin and make some straight black lines on the middle of it, cross ways.”
“Will you please tell me what I’m making?”
“Wait and see!”
Obeying instructions, he fastened the paper tightly in the fork of the clothes-pin, and spread it out on either side. The corners were cut and pulled into the semblance of wings, and black circles were painted here and there. Iris herself added the finishing touch – two bits of the ostrich feather glued to the top of the head for antennæ.
“Oh,” cried Lynn, in pleased surprise, “a butterfly!”
“How hideous!” said Margaret, pausing in the doorway. “I trust it’s not meant for me.”
“It’s for the Fräulein,” answered Iris, gathering up her paints and sweeping aside the litter. “Lynn has made it all by himself.”
“I wonder how he stands it,” mused Irving, critically inspecting the butterfly.
“I asked him once,” said Iris, “if he liked all the queer things in his house, and he shrugged his shoulders. ‘What good is mine art to me,’ he asked, ‘if it makes me so I cannot live with mine sister? Fredrika likes the gay colours, such as one sees in the fields, but they hurt mine eyes. Still because the tidies and the crazy jug swear to me, it is no reason for me to hurt mine sister’s feelings. We have a large house. Fredrika has the upstairs and I have the downstairs. When I can no longer stand the bright lights, I can turn mine back and look out of the window, or I can go down in the shop with mine violins. Down there I see no colours and I can put mine feet on all chairs.’”
Lynn laughed, but Margaret, who was listening intently, only smiled sadly.
That afternoon, when the boy went up the hill, with the butterfly dangling from his hand by a string, he was greeted with childish cries of delight on either side. Hoping for equal success at the Master’s, he rang the bell, and the Fräulein came to the door. When she saw who it was, her face instantly became hard and forbidding.
“Mine brudder is not home,” she said, frostily.
“I know,” answered Lynn, with a winning smile, “but I came to see you. See, I made this for you.”
Wonder and delight were in her eyes as she took it from his outstretched hand. “For me?”
“Yes, all for you. I made it.”
“You make this for me by yourself alone?”
“No, Miss Temple helped me.”
“Miss Temple,” repeated the Fräulein, “she is most kind. And you likewise,” she hastened to add. “It will be of a niceness if Miss Temple and you shall come to mine house to tea to-morrow evening.”
“I’ll ask her,” he returned, “and thank you very much.” Thus Lynn made his peace with Fräulein Fredrika.
Laughing like two irresponsible children, they went up the hill together at the appointed time. Lynn’s arms were full of wild crab-apple blooms, which he had taken a long walk to find, and Iris had two little pots of preserves as her contribution to the feast.
Their host and hostess were waiting for them at the door. Fräulein Fredrika was very elegant in her best gown, and her sharp eyes were kind. The Master was clad in rusty black, which bore marks of frequent sponging and occasional pressing. “It is most kind,” he said, bowing gallantly to Iris; “and you, young man, I am glad to see you, as always.”
Iris
