“War has been declared.”

Miss Minton’s hand trembled slightly, as she laid down the evening paper, but otherwise she showed no sign of unusual emotion. There was a moment of dead silence, and every face grew suddenly grave. They all knew what it meant, those twelve pupils, and five teachers, seated at Miss Minton’s long supper table. For nearly three years this terrible thing called war had been devastating Europe, bringing pain and misery to millions of once happy homes. And now their own country was to cast in her lot with the Allies, in the great fight for humanity. It was the first time in the twenty years and more, during which Miss Minton had been the mistress of her small school for girls, that that lady had ever been known to look at a newspaper at meal time, but to-night she had left instructions that the paper should be brought to her the moment it arrived. For weeks every one had been expecting the war cloud to burst, and yet now that it had happened, they were all conscious of a certain shock. Amy Bowring began to cry.

“My brother will have to go,” she sobbed; “he was at Plattsburg all last summer. Oh, it’s dreadful. I don’t see why the President didn’t prevent it.”

Ada Godfrey’s black eyes flashed indignantly. Her uncle had gone down on the Lusitania.

“I’m glad he didn’t prevent it,” she said. “We ought to have gone in two years ago. It’s time those Germans learned they don’t own the whole world.”

“Ada,” said Miss Minton, reprovingly, and she glanced down the long table to where little FrÄulein Sieling, the German teacher, sat next to Gretel Schiller. Ada bit her lip, and she, too, glanced at the only two people among them all to whom Germany meant more than a name. FrÄulein had grown very pale, and there was a frightened look in her blue eyes, but she was buttering a muffin with apparent calmness. Gretel Schiller had flushed, and her lips were quivering. Gretel’s father had been a famous German pianist, and although he had died several years before, and Gretel was living with an American half-brother and his wife, and was in every way quite as much an American herself as any of them, they all knew that she worshipped her father’s memory.

“You remember the Civil War, don’t you, Miss Minton?” Grace Moss asked, by way of steering the conversation into smoother waters. Grace was one of the oldest pupils in the school, and felt privileged to ask questions.

“Yes,” answered Miss Minton, with a sigh. “I was only a child, but I remember many things about that time. My eldest brother was killed at Gettysburg. Amy, if you can’t control yourself, you will have to leave the table.”

Miss Minton was always stern, but her tone was kinder than her words, and Amy made an effort to check her sobs, and go on with her supper.

“Do you remember the Civil War, too, Miss Laura?” Geraldine Barlow inquired of Miss Laura, Miss Minton’s younger sister, who sat at the other end of the table.

“No, dear, I was too young. My sister is ten years older than I. I think she is the only person here who has any memory of what real war is like. Of course there was the little war with Spain, twenty years ago, but that was so quickly over.”

“Perhaps this war will be over quickly, too, now that America has gone in,” said Angel Thayer, who always looked on the bright side of things. “I don’t believe the Germans can hold out much longer. Perhaps they will give in, and ask for peace before our boys get over.”

“Not much hope of that,” said Margaret May. “My father writes that Germany is terribly strong still. He ought to know something about it, for he has been working in the French hospitals for over a year.” Margaret spoke confidently. She was very proud of that father of hers, the poor country doctor, who had left his practice at home, and gone to tend the wounded boys in France.

At that moment FrÄulein pushed back her chair from the table. “May I be pardoned if I go to my room?” she asked in her slow, careful English, and she cast an appealing glance at Miss Minton. “I have a very bad headache.”

“Certainly,” said Miss Minton, kindly, and as the little German teacher hurriedly left the room, she added in a reproachful tone to Ada:

“I am afraid you have hurt FrÄulein’s feelings, Ada. It is not her fault that her country is at war with us.”

Gretel’s grave face brightened, and she gave Miss Minton a grateful glance.

“FrÄulein is very unhappy,” she said, impulsively. “This dreadful war has almost broken her heart.” “A pity it did not break it altogether,” muttered Madame, the French teacher, but she did not speak loud enough to be heard by either of the Mintons, for quarrels between different nationalities were strictly forbidden in the school.

Gretel saw Madame’s expression, even though she did not hear her words, and a shadow crept into her brown eyes. She was very fond of FrÄulein, who, for more than a year now, had been the only person to whom she could talk freely of her father’s memory, and of her happy childhood, which had been spent in the big, shabby studio, among his German friends. Indeed, FrÄulein was the only German she knew, for since she had gone to live with her American relatives, she had quite lost trace of all her father’s friends. Her brother and his wife were very good to her, and she loved them dearly, but those old memories were very tender ones, and so when, a year and a half ago, she had come to Miss Minton’s, a rather shy, quiet little girl of thirteen, it was not strange that her heart should have gone out to the sentimental little German teacher, who talked to her in her father’s language, and seemed to understand her as few people had done. Those were the early days of the war, when many Americans still tried to be neutral, and Gretel’s family had made no objections, when, in the holidays, she had asked to invite FrÄulein to their home. She had even gone to tea with FrÄulein, at her aunt’s apartment. But as the months passed, things changed; feeling against Germany grew stronger, and on her last visit Gretel had heard remarks made by FrÄulein’s aunt, that had brought the hot, indignant blood into her cheeks. Still, she had remained faithful in her affection for her friend, arguing that, after all, if people were Germans it was natural they should refuse to believe evil of their country. She tried to picture herself in FrÄulein’s place, a stranger in a strange land, and she felt sure that whatever people had said against America, she should still have loved her country, and been loyal to her.

And now America was actually at war with Germany, and things would necessarily grow more difficult. Gretel’s face was very grave and troubled when, some fifteen minutes later, they all rose from the supper table, and filed out of the dining-room. Her first thought was to go to FrÄulein, and try to comfort her. It was Good Friday, and there would be no more lessons till the following Tuesday. The girls had the evening to themselves, and could do what they chose till bedtime.

As soon as they had left the dining-room Amy began to cry again, and Angel Thayer, too, who was her room-mate, and best friend, slipped an arm about her tenderly.

“Don’t cry, Amy,” she soothed. “Perhaps the war will be over before your brother gets there. Miss Minton says most of the boys will have to be trained in this country before they are sent overseas.”

“I only wish I had a brother to go,” proclaimed Ada Godfrey. “I would be proud to give him to my country.”

“You wouldn’t if he were the only brother you had in the world,” objected Amy, with a sob. “It’s all very well to talk when you haven’t any brothers, and your father’s dead. There isn’t a soul in your family to go.”

“It wouldn’t make any difference if I had only one man relative in the world,” declared Ada, heroically. “I should be proud to send him to the war, even if I knew positively he would be killed the next month. We ought to glory in making sacrifices. Think what the English and French have done. My aunt, who is doing war work in England, says there is scarcely a family that hasn’t lost at least one member. Oh, I wish those horrid Germans were all——” Ada checked herself abruptly, for Miss Minton was still within hearing distance.

Every face grew grave. This idea of sacrifice for their country was a new one to most of them. So far, Margaret May was the only girl at Miss Minton’s to whom war had meant anything more than a name. But now—— Even Angel’s bright smile faded, as she suddenly remembered that her father, whom she adored, was still a young man. Was it possible that fathers as well as brothers might be called upon to join the colors?

“I can’t help being glad my brothers are little boys,” said Molly Chester, with a catch in her voice. “Father’s nearly fifty, so of course he’s too old. I’m afraid I’m selfish, but it is a great comfort.”

“Both my brothers will go,” said Olive Gerard, quietly. “I am glad to have them, but of course it’s going to be hard for Mother and me.” Olive was seventeen; a tall girl, with a sweet face, and gentle gray eyes. She was a great favorite with the younger pupils, who all looked up to her and admired her very much, and instinctively both Amy and Angel drew a little closer to her, and Amy slipped a trembling hand into hers.

“I wish I could be brave,” she whispered, “but I know I am an awful coward. Jack always told me I was a coward, because I was afraid of snakes, and mice, and horrid creeping things, but, oh, it’s so terrible to think of having people we love go away to be killed or wounded! I’m afraid I can never be brave enough to bear it as I ought.”

“Oh, yes, you will,” said Olive, smiling; “we shall all learn to be brave. Think of how brave the English and French women have been. An English friend of my mother’s wrote that all her three boys were at the front, and that, hard as it was to part from them, there was one thing that would have been much harder, and that would have been if they hadn’t wanted to go.”

“Oh, Jack wants to go,” cried Amy, with shining eyes. “He’s been wanting to for more than a year.” And, suddenly she was conscious of a sensation of pride in her big, handsome brother, that, with all her love for him, she had never felt before.

“Where are you going, Gretel?” Geraldine Barlow inquired, as they all moved off in the direction of the big gymnasium.

“To FrÄulein’s room,” Gretel answered. “I think I’ll see if there is anything I can do for her. She said she had a headache.” Geraldine looked troubled. She was a year younger than Gretel, whom she liked very much, but she had never been quite able to understand her friend’s intimacy with the German teacher.

“Don’t you think perhaps she might prefer being by herself?” she suggested.

Gretel shook her head.

“I think she would like to see me,” she said, and turned resolutely in the direction of the staircase. More than one pair of eyes looked after her curiously.

“What can she see in that German woman to like so much?” said Kitty Sharp. “I can’t bear FrÄulein myself, she’s so silly and sentimental, and did you see how she looked when Miss Minton told us war had been declared? I suppose she’s scared to death now we’ve gone into the war.”

“Gretel likes her because she’s half German herself,” said Ada, scornfully. “If I were in Gretel’s place I should change my name. I wouldn’t be called Schiller, it’s so horribly German.” “Better not let her hear you suggest such a thing,” laughed Molly. “She’s terribly proud of her father. He really was a great musician, you know.”

“Well, suppose he was,” scoffed Ada. “Nobody cares about German music now. If I were in Gretel’s place, I would never mention my father’s name. Her brother’s name is Douaine. I’m sure she could take it if she wanted to. If I had a German name I’d change it as quick——” Ada’s eyes snapped, and her lips tightened.

Meantime Gretel had mounted the stairs, and made her way along the wide corridor to FrÄulein’s room. The door was closed, and she received no response to her first gentle tap, but after waiting a moment, she turned the handle, and went in. The room was in darkness, but the light from the hall dimly revealed a motionless form lying on the bed, and at the opening of the door, the figure suddenly lifted its head.

“Who is it?” inquired FrÄulein, in a choked voice. “Only I,” said Gretel, and having closed the door, she made her way in the darkness to the bed. “I came to see if I could do anything for you. Oh, FrÄulein dear, I’m so sorry! I know how unhappy you are.”

FrÄulein buried her face in the pillow, with a sob.

“Oh, Liebchen,” she moaned, “it is frightful. My poor, dear country!”

Gretel gave a start, and the color rushed up into her face.

“I—I wasn’t thinking about your country,” she stammered; “I was only sorry because you are so unhappy.”

“But it is of my poor country that I am thinking,” sighed the German woman. “My dear ones have suffered so cruelly. My two uncles were killed the first year, and the cousin to whom I was affianced is a prisoner in Russia.”

“But the other countries have suffered just as much,” said Gretel, “and, after all, it was Germany that started the war.” FrÄulein sat up suddenly.

“You say that because you will only listen to one side,” she cried, and her voice shook with sudden anger. “You, who are a German yourself, should have a broad mind.”

Gretel’s cheeks grew hotter, and even her heart began to beat rather fast.

“I am not narrow-minded,” she said, indignantly, “and—and, I think you forget, FrÄulein, that I am an American. My mother was an American, and I was born in New York.”

FrÄulein began to cry again.

“You need not fly at me,” she sobbed. “Your father was a German.”

“I know he was,” said Gretel, unsteadily, “and he was one of the best men who ever lived. If he were alive now, I know he would not approve of the dreadful things the Germans have done. He was always kind and good to everybody.”

“So was my cousin Rudolph,” murmured FrÄulein, “but when war comes what can one do? One must obey one’s superiors.” “I wouldn’t!” cried Gretel, hotly. “I would rather be shot a hundred times over than do some of the things the Germans have done in France and Belgium.”

FrÄulein threw herself back on the bed, and turned her face to the wall.

“You had better go away,” she said, crossly; “you are not sympathetic to-night, and my head is bad.”

Gretel moved a few steps nearer to the door.

“Good-night,” she said. “I’m sorry you won’t let me do anything for you. I didn’t mean to be unsympathetic. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, or say unkind things about your country, but——”

“It is your country as well as mine,” interrupted the German woman. “I well remember the time when you were proud to be the daughter of the famous Hermann Schiller.”

The tears started to Gretel’s eyes.

“I am proud of my father now,” she said, “just as proud as I ever was in my life, but it is because he was a good man, and a great musician, not because he was a German.”

FrÄulein did not answer, and, having reached the door, Gretel opened it, and went out. In the hall she met Geraldine.

“Oh, here you are,” said the younger girl, in a tone of evident satisfaction. “I was going to FrÄulein’s room to look for you. Miss Minton sent me for you. She wants you to play.”

Gretel’s face brightened. Her music was one of the greatest pleasures of her life, and to be asked to play to Miss Minton was a great compliment. Five minutes later she was at the piano in the Mintons’ private parlor, touching the keys with loving fingers, while Miss Minton and her sister knitted socks for the soldiers.

And as she played, all the trouble died out of Gretel’s brown eyes, and was replaced by the sweet, dreamy expression, which always came with the music she loved. For the moment, war, discussions with FrÄulein, everything was forgotten, but the grand old masterpiece she was playing, and which her father had loved. She played uninterruptedly for nearly an hour, and when she rose at last, in a panic of fear, lest she had tired her audience, Miss Minton’s “Thank you, my dear,” was so hearty, that the girl’s heart swelled with pride, for her schoolmistress seldom paid compliments. Miss Laura said nothing, but as Gretel left the room, she heard the younger sister remark in a voice that was not quite steady:

“I suppose I am very foolish, but music like that always makes me cry. What a gift that child has.”

Gretel smiled. She knew that she possessed a great gift, but the knowledge had never made her conceited.

“It is Father’s legacy to me,” she often told herself, “the only legacy he had to leave; poor, kind Father.” And she resolved to do all in her power to perfect herself in this one talent of hers.

The girls were all in the gymnasium, playing games. Gretel heard their voices, but somehow she did not feel like joining them that evening. So, after lingering a moment in the hall, she went up-stairs to the room she shared with Geraldine. She switched on the electric light, and, going to the bureau, stood for a long time gazing at the framed photograph of her father. It was the photograph of the proverbial German musician, deep-set eyes, and protruding brows, but the eyes were very kind and gentle, and as she looked at the familiar face, Gretel’s own eyes suddenly filled with tears.

“Dear Father,” she murmured, bending to kiss the picture; “I think I am almost glad you are in heaven. It would have made you so unhappy to know of the terrible things your people have done. But the rest are not like you; oh, they are not like you!” Gretel’s head drooped, and putting up both hands to her burning face, she burst into tears.

She was already in bed when Geraldine came up half an hour later, full of the fun they had been having in the gym. When one is only fourteen, even the news that one’s country has gone to war cannot altogether crush the desire for fun.

“The girls all wondered where you were,” she said a little reproachfully, as she sat down on the edge of Gretel’s bed to unbutton her boots. “I told them you were playing for the Mintons, but I thought perhaps you would come in later.”

“I didn’t feel like romping to-night,” said Gretel, “so I thought I might as well go to bed as do anything else.”

“I’m glad you weren’t with FrÄulein all the evening,” said Geraldine. “Ada said she supposed you were hobnobbing together, and it made me mad. You know the sarcastic way she has of saying things.”

Gretel sighed.

“I can’t help feeling very sorry for FrÄulein!” she said. “Just think how we should feel if we were in Germany now, and couldn’t go home. It isn’t her fault that we are at war, nor her family’s fault either.”

“No, of course it isn’t,” Geraldine agreed, “and I’ve always stood up for her when Ada and the others said disagreeable things. But she did act rather queerly to-night at supper. Suppose she should turn out to be a spy, or something dreadful like that.”

Geraldine was romantic, and she and her twin brother had read a great many detective stories.

“Nonsense,” said Gretel, indignantly. “You ought not to say such things even in fun.”

“Ada wasn’t in fun,” said Geraldine. “She said—but perhaps I’d better not tell you if it’s going to make you mad.”

“Tell me,” said Gretel, sitting up in bed. “After all, I suppose Ada has the right to say what she chooses, even if it is unkind.”

“Well, she said she doubted very much whether FrÄulein was loyal to the United States, and she thought Miss Minton ought not to keep her any longer.” Two bright red spots were beginning to burn in Gretel’s cheeks.

“Miss Minton wouldn’t be so unkind as to send FrÄulein away now,” she said. “There wouldn’t be any place for her to go except to her uncle’s, and I’m sure she wouldn’t be happy there. He always makes her pay board in the vacations, and if she hadn’t any money I’m afraid he would be very disagreeable. I saw him once, when I went to tea with FrÄulein and her aunt, and he had such a hard, cruel face.”

Geraldine looked grave.

“Well, I hope it won’t happen,” she said, “but most of the girls say they won’t take any more German lessons now we are at war. I wouldn’t worry about it, anyhow. Miss Minton is strict, but she is never unjust. Even if she should send FrÄulein away, I’m sure she would pay her for the rest of the term. Oh, Gretel, isn’t the war exciting? Just think, lots of people we know may have to go.”

Gretel’s lip quivered.

“I know,” she said, softly. “It’s very terrible. My heart has been so heavy all the evening that I just couldn’t play games. Geraldine, let’s say our prayers together, and ask God to take care of our dear ones, and bring this dreadful fighting and killing to an end before long.”

“All right,” said Geraldine, in a tone of unusual gravity. “Of course it’s terrible, only at first it seemed so exciting I didn’t think of anything else. I suppose it’s very selfish, but I can’t help being thankful Father is over age, and Jerry only fourteen. Molly Chester said the same thing about her family this evening.”

Gretel smiled indulgently, for, though Geraldine was only a year younger than herself, she still looked upon her friend as quite a little girl.

“I’m thankful, too,” she said. “I suppose Percy is over age, too, but I don’t know what he may decide to do. He thought America ought to have gone into the war two years ago. Now hurry and undress, and then we’ll say our prayers, and try to go to sleep.”