When they got to the farm in the soft late afternoon light, the most
gracious mood came over his lady. It was just a Swiss farmhouse of many
storeys, the lower one for the cows and other animals, and the rest for
the family and industries. All was clean and in order, with that wonderful
outside neatness which makes Swiss chalets look like painted toy houses
popped down on the greensward without yard or byre. And these people were
well-to-do, and it was the best of its kind.
The _Baeuerin_, a buxom mother of many little ones, was nursing another not
four weeks old, a fat, prosperous infant in its quaint Swiss clothes. Her
broad face beamed with pride as she welcomed the gracious lady. Old
acquaintances they appeared, and they exchanged greetings. Foreign
languages were not Paul's strong point, and he caught not a word of
meaning in the German _patois_ the good woman talked. But his lady was
voluble, and seemed to know each flaxen-haired child by name, though it
was the infant which longest arrested her attention. She held it in her
arms. And Paul had never seen her look so young or so beautiful.
The good woman left them alone while she prepared some coffee for them in
the adjoining kitchen, followed by her troop of _kinder_. Only the little
one still lay in the lady's arms.
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