ck from the highway, lifted heated faces and glanced toward the
enclosure, where a youth seated at one of the tables had half risen from
his place, and was gesticulating with the open book in his hand to
vacant seats beside him.

"It is Tieze," said Schubert, with a smile. "Come in."

His companion nodded. The next instant a swift waiter had served them,
and three round, smiling faces surveyed one another above the foaming
mugs.

"Ach!" said Tieze, looking more critically at the shorter man, "but you
have grown thin, my friend. You are not so great."

Schubert smiled complacently. He glanced down at his rotund figure.

"Nein, I am little," he assented affably.

His companions broke into a roar of laughter.

"Drink her down, Franz! drink her down!" said Tieze, lifting the heavy
stein.

Schubert wiped the foam from his lips.

"Ja, that is good!" He drew a deep sigh.

He reached out his hand for the open volume that lay by his companion's
hand. It was given over in silence, and he dipped into it as he sipped
the beer, smiling and scowling and humming softly. Now and then he
lifted his head and listened. His eyes looked across the noisy garden
into space.

His companions ignored him. They laughed and chatted and sang. Other
young men joined the group, and the talk grew loud. It was the Sunday
festival of Warseck.

Schubert smiled absently across the babel.

"A pencil--quick!" he said in a low tone to Tieze. His hand holding the
open book trembled, and the big eyes glowed with fire.

Tieze fumbled in his pockets and shook his head.

Schubert glared at the careless group.

"A pencil, I tell you!" he said fiercely.

There was a moment's lull. Nobody laughed. Some one thrust a stub of
pencil across the table. A fat young man sitting at Schubert's side
seized it and, drawing a few music-bars on the back of a programme,
pushed it on to him.

"Ach!" said Schubert, with a grateful sigh, "Goot--goot!" In another
moment he was lost.

The talk grew louder. Hurried waiters rushed back and forth behind his
chair with foaming mugs and slices of black bread, and gray and brown.
Fiddles squeaked, and skittle-players shouted. Now and then the noise
broke off and changed to the national air, which the band across the
garden played loudly. But through it all Schubert's big head wagged
absently, and his short-sighted eyes glared at the barred lines and
flying pencil.

Suddenly he raised his head with a snort. His spe