It was Easter Sunday. Such a strange Easter, quite unlike any the girls had ever known before, for though the world was bathed in bright spring sunshine, and a robin was singing his merriest song in the elm-tree outside the schoolroom window, there was a strange feeling of solemnity about everything—a feeling as if something were going to happen, and the storm might break at any moment.

They had walked to church as usual, but even on the quiet village street little groups of people were talking earnestly together, and every face they saw was grave, and a little anxious. The service had been beautiful, and the village children had sung the Easter carols, as they always did, but after the regular Easter sermon, the clergyman had made an earnest appeal to his congregation to do their duty as loyal Americans, and to be ready for sacrifice now that the call had come. Gretel had felt her heart thrill as she listened, and she could not help glancing at her schoolmates for sympathy. Amy Bowring was crying softly, and Ada looked flushed and excited.

“I’ve been praying all winter that we might not have to go into the war,” Molly Chester whispered, as they walked down the aisle, while the organ played “The Star-Spangled Banner,” “but I’m glad we’re in now. I shouldn’t like to be ashamed of my country.”

They had walked home very quietly, nobody feeling much inclined to talk, and now the midday dinner was over, and most of the girls had gathered in the schoolroom to write their weekly letters home. One of the things which had helped to make Miss Minton’s little school popular for so many years was the fact that she had always tried to make it as much as possible like home. There were a few rules, which must be followed, but in general the girls were allowed to do very much, out of lesson hours, as they would if they were in their own homes. Miss Minton always declared that she would not keep a girl in her school whom she could not trust, and when girls—and boys, too, for that matter—are put on their honor, it is really surprising how comparatively seldom they get into mischief. So the girls at Miss Minton’s were allowed to spend their Sunday afternoons very much as they would have spent them at home, although there was a general understanding that Sunday was the day for writing home letters. No one was obliged to attend afternoon service unless she wished, but in the evening they sang hymns, and Miss Minton asked Bible questions, which was quite exciting, as everybody tried to be ready with a correct answer, and Miss Minton had a disconcerting way of skipping about, so that it was impossible to guess what question she would ask next. On this Easter afternoon Grace, Olive, and one or two of the other girls, had gone to church with Miss Laura, and Miss Whiting, the arithmetic teacher, but Gretel, Geraldine, Molly, Kitty, Angel, and Ada were all in the schoolroom writing letters.

For a while it was very quiet, with only the scratching of pens, and an occasional rustle of paper, to break the silence, but at last Ada finished her letter, and remarked, as she slipped it into the envelope:

“I’ve written Mother that I don’t intend to take another German lesson. I know she’ll approve.”

“I envy you,” said Kitty. “I wish I could write the same to my mother, but I know she’d say I must do as Miss Minton thinks best. I hate German.”

“So do I,” chimed in Amy, “but I suppose we’ve got to study it as long as FrÄulein stays. Did you ever see any one with such a long face as FrÄulein has worn ever since war was declared?”

“I’m sorry for her,” said Molly, sympathetically. “She must hate to feel how everybody dislikes her country. I should have a long face, too, if I were in her place.”

“You wouldn’t if you were loyal to America,” declared Ada. “You would be glad your old country was getting what she deserved.”

“There are some good, loyal Germans in this country,” put in Angel. “Gretel knew ever so many when her father was alive, and some of them were lovely; weren’t they, Gretel?”

“I don’t believe all Germans are wicked,” said Gretel, blushing. “Those musicians who came to Father’s studio were very kind and generous to each other. I don’t believe any of them would have done the terrible things we’ve been reading about in the papers.”

“Wouldn’t they, though?” scoffed Ada. “Just give them a chance, and see what they would do. My mother says she wouldn’t trust a German, not if——”

Ada paused abruptly, as the door opened, and FrÄulein herself appeared on the threshold. The little German teacher was looking flushed and agitated, and stood for a moment, glancing from one face to another, until her eye met Gretel’s sympathetic gaze. Gretel was feeling rather hot and indignant at the moment. Ada’s words had hurt her keenly, and she was conscious of a sudden access of affection for FrÄulein, who seemed so forlorn and unhappy.

“Would you like to go for a walk, FrÄulein?” she asked, kindly. “I’ve finished my letter, and I’d love to go with you.”

FrÄulein shook her head, and her lip quivered.

“I have come to say good-bye to you all,” she said. “I go this evening.”

There was a little stir of excitement, pens were laid down, and all eyes were turned in surprise towards the German teacher.

“We—we didn’t think you would go,” gasped Molly, and Angel added politely:

“We are very sorry. I hope no one in your family is ill.”

“No,” said FrÄulein, “it is not illness that causes me to leave. It is because Miss Minton thinks it best. She says none of you will wish to study German any more this year.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, and then Geraldine said, awkwardly: “It’ll be rather jolly to have a holiday in the middle of the term, won’t it? I wish I were going to have one; don’t you, girls?”

“I do,” said Angel. “I don’t believe it will be a long holiday, though. The war will surely be over by next autumn, and then, of course, FrÄulein will come back.”

“I do not think so,” said FrÄulein, and there was a sound in her voice that might have been either pain or anger. “The war will not be over as soon as you think. Germany is still very strong; she will not give in for a long time yet. And in the meantime the poor Germans in this country must starve, I suppose.”

“Oh, no they won’t, I’m sure they won’t!” protested Angel. “It is very hard for them, I know, and I am dreadfully sorry, but if we were in Germany now it would be just as hard for us. I don’t believe Miss Minton meant to be unkind.”

“She thinks herself justified, I suppose,” returned the German woman. “You all do that, but it does not alter the fact. However, that is not the question now. I have come to say good-bye. I am taking the five-thirty train to New York.”

All the girls except Ada rose politely.

“Good-bye, FrÄulein,” said Molly, holding out her hand. “I—I hope you’ll have a pleasant summer.”

The others followed Molly’s example, and they all shook hands. Then FrÄulein turned to Ada.

“Will you not bid me good-bye?” she said. “I know you have never liked me, but may we not part friends?”

“Good-bye, FrÄulein,” said Ada, coldly. “I am sorry you think I have never liked you. I have always tried to be polite.”

“Actions speak louder than words,” quoted FrÄulein, and without another word, she turned to leave the room.

“I’ll come and help you pack,” said Gretel, and, with a reproachful glance at Ada, she followed the German woman from the room.

“Well, of all the disagreeable, impertinent people!” burst out Ada, as the door closed behind them. “To tell me I never liked her! It’s quite true, of course, but I didn’t suppose she knew it.”

“I don’t see how she could have helped knowing it,” said Geraldine, bluntly. “I think you might have been polite enough to stand up and shake hands. None of us cares much about her, but it isn’t necessary to be rude.”

Ada reddened, and bit her lip.

“I don’t care how rude I am to a German,” she said. “I hate them all, and all loyal Americans ought to hate them. Think of Belgium and the Lusitania. I’m not like your friend Gretel Schiller.”

Geraldine sprang to her feet; her eyes were flashing.

“Ada Godfrey,” she cried, her voice trembling with rage, “you are the meanest girl I ever knew. You know perfectly well that Gretel is as good an American as any one of us. She can’t help the fact that her father was a German. If you ever say a thing like that again I’ll—I’ll——”

“Oh, don’t quarrel, girls,” expostulated Molly. “Of course we know Gretel is all right, and it really was very rude to treat FrÄulein as you did, Ada. Of course, she was rude, too, but then she is in a pretty hard position. Some Germans are very nice. We had a FrÄulein when we were little, and we all loved her dearly. If we dislike FrÄulein, I think it’s principally because she has never seemed to care much about us.”

“She seemed to care a good deal for Gretel,” muttered Ada, but she said no more, and Geraldine also relapsed into silence, and went on with the letter she was writing her twin brother at St. Mark’s. But if any one had chanced to look over her shoulder, it would have been seen that Ada was still in her black books. For Jerry Barlow was as devoted in his allegiance to Gretel as his sister, and Geraldine was sure of his sympathy.

Meanwhile Gretel had followed FrÄulein up-stairs in silence, neither of them uttering a word until they had reached the German teacher’s room and closed the door. Then FrÄulein spoke. “Impudent little beast!” she said, and then collapsed in the rocking-chair, and began to cry.

Gretel was very uncomfortable. She was sincerely sorry for FrÄulein, and angry with Ada, but at the same time she felt convinced that things could not be quite as bad as FrÄulein had represented. So, instead of putting her arms round her friend’s neck, and comforting her—which was what FrÄulein expected—she remained standing in embarrassed silence, till the German woman demanded between sobs:

“Have you nothing to say to me? Have you, too, turned against me because of this cruel war? Ah, I did not expect this of you—I did not think——” Sobs checked further utterance.

Now, Gretel had a very soft heart, and the sight of this distress was more than she could bear. In another moment her arms were round her friend, and she was trying to draw FrÄulein’s hands down from her face.

“Oh, FrÄulein dear,” she protested, crying herself from pure sympathy, “I am so terribly, terribly sorry! Do try not to be so unhappy. You know I haven’t turned against you; I couldn’t do such a thing. I am your friend; I would do anything I could to help you. You can’t help being German. You are no more to blame for this dreadful war than Father would be if he were alive now.”

“Of course I am not to blame,” choked FrÄulein, “but people treat me as if I were. It is cruel and outrageous, and what is more, I will not endure it.” And suddenly FrÄulein’s foot came down with a stamp, that rather startled Gretel, for she had not realized before that her friend had a temper.

“I know it is cruel,” she said, soothingly, “but I don’t see how we can help it. People are sometimes rather unkind to me, too, although I am only half German.”

“Half German,” repeated FrÄulein, scornfully; “yes, that is it, you are only half German. You will not help the cause, but I am not afraid; I will work for my country! I——” “Oh, FrÄulein, don’t talk like that,” interrupted Gretel. “It isn’t right. You are an American citizen. If people heard you say such things, you might get into dreadful trouble. Perhaps, after all, you will be happier away from here. I sometimes wish I could go away myself, when Ada—I mean when people say unkind things about Father’s being German; but I am afraid it would be cowardly to ask Percy to let me go home before the end of the term.”

“I have been dismissed,” cried FrÄulein, returning to her grievance, “dismissed for no fault, except that I am a German—one of the hated race. I am turned out like a dog; I may starve for aught they care.”

“Oh, that is terrible!” gasped Gretel. “Do you mean that Miss Minton didn’t pay you your salary?”

“Pay! What is pay? Do they think because they offer one a little money everything is to be forgiven and forgotten? Yes, she has paid me for the rest of the season, but how long will that money last, and when it is gone what am I to do? My uncle will only let me share his home while I have money to pay my board, and who will employ a German now that this country has gone mad, and joined our enemies?”

“I know it’s going to be very hard for you,” murmured Gretel. “Percy gives me a very large allowance—much more than I really need—if you would let me help you——”

FrÄulein’s face softened.

“You are a dear, generous child,” she said, “but it would never be allowed. If your brother were to find out that you were helping a German, your allowance would be stopped on the instant. Of course, you might be able to keep him in ignorance. I am not thinking of myself but of others. Are you obliged to render an account of how your allowance is spent?”

“No,” said Gretel; “Percy and Barbara are very kind. They never ask how I spend my money, but I always tell them. I couldn’t do a thing I thought they might disapprove of without telling them. It wouldn’t be fair.” FrÄulein sighed and shook her head.

“Then you may be quite certain you will never be able to help a German in distress,” she said, “but you have a kind heart, and there are not many kind hearts in this cruel world now.”

There was something very pathetic in the quiver of FrÄulein’s voice, and in her red, swollen eyes, and all at once Gretel found herself recalling the dingy little flat, where her friend’s relatives lived. After all, it was very sad to be alone in an enemy’s country in war time. Before she quite realized what she was doing, her arms were round FrÄulein’s neck again, and she was kissing her, and murmuring in her half-forgotten German:

“Dear FrÄulein, I love you very much, and if I can ever help you in any way, indeed, indeed I will try.”

An hour and a half later, Gretel was standing at the hall window, watching the station bus, with FrÄulein and her belongings inside, disappearing from sight in the gathering dusk. In spite of herself, she could not help a little sigh of relief.

“Poor FrÄulein,” she said to herself, “I’m terribly sorry for her, of course, but I can’t help feeling rather glad she’s gone. I am sure she’ll be much happier with her own people, even if she does think she won’t.”

She was turning to go up-stairs when she encountered Miss Laura, coming out of Miss Minton’s private sitting-room. Miss Laura was much more approachable than her sister, and would sometimes condescend to be quite friendly, even confidential with the girls. On the present occasion she stopped Gretel to inquire rather mysteriously:

“Has she gone?”

“Do you mean FrÄulein?” asked Gretel. “Yes, the bus has just left.”

“Well, I must say I am relieved,” said Miss Laura. “I was so afraid she would make a scene of some sort; those foreigners are so dramatic. She has quite upset Sister; she was so rude; really almost violent in her language. I should have been frightened to death, but Sister is always so calm. She assured the woman there was no reason for her leaving at once. It was merely a question of discontinuing the German classes during the war. FrÄulein flew into a rage, and declared she would go by the first train, and that no earthly consideration would induce her to spend another night under our roof. Downright ungrateful conduct, I call it, after the care Sister took of her when she was laid up so long with bronchitis last winter. But then, what else can one expect from a German?”

Again the hot blood rushed up into Gretel’s cheeks, and she hurried away that Miss Laura might not see the tears that had started to her eyes.

“I don’t suppose they mean to be unkind,” she told herself, as she went up-stairs to her own room. “Perhaps Miss Laura didn’t even remember that Father was a German, but it does hurt when people say such things, and I can’t altogether blame FrÄulein for being angry, although, of course, she had no right to be rude to Miss Minton.”