It was the fourteenth of June, and “Breaking-Up” day at Miss Minton’s. For more than two months the United States had been at war with Germany, and during that time many things had happened. Even the quiet little Connecticut village, where Miss Minton lived, had begun to realize something of what war meant. There was a Service Flag waving from each of more than a dozen houses, and only the day before there had been a sad leave-taking at the station, when thirty boys had left for the nearest training-camp. Registration Day had come and gone, and more than ten million young men between the ages of eighteen and thirty had signed their names.

Among the girls at Miss Minton’s, war was also beginning to seem very real. Amy’s brother had left Harvard, and gone for a month’s training before being sent overseas. One of Olive’s brothers had joined the Flying Corps, and the other was already on his way to France. Angel Thayer’s father had offered his services for foreign duty, and Gretel’s brother was doing Government work in Washington.

But people cannot always be sad, even in war time, and on that glorious June morning, when the air was heavy with the fragrance of roses and honeysuckle, and the birds were singing as birds only do sing in June, a group of very bright young faces was gathered on Miss Minton’s front porch, awaiting the arrival of the station bus.

“I’m so excited at the thought of going home I can hardly wait to get to the station,” said Molly Chester, joyfully. “It seems an age since I saw my family in March.”

“Haven’t your people gone to the country yet?” inquired Kitty, whose own family had already moved to their summer home on the Jersey shore. “Oh, yes, they went up to New London on the first. I’m to meet Father in town this afternoon, and go up with him.”

“New London will be interesting this summer, with the naval station so near,” remarked Margaret May. “You and Ada are lucky to have summer places there.” Margaret spoke a little enviously. Her own home was in a small town in Vermont, and her hopes of an exciting summer were not high.

“I dare say we shall see a good deal of the officers,” Molly said. “My cousin Stephen Cranston is stationed at New London, and I suppose he will bring some of the boys up to our house. I don’t believe we shall be allowed to go near the naval station, though; they are so afraid of spies.”

“Wouldn’t it be exciting to catch a spy?” said Geraldine, to whom war still seemed like an exciting game. “Jerry and I used to play spy games when we were kids. I always loved reading stories about them, didn’t you, Gretel?”

“Yes,” said Gretel, “when they were only stories, but now when it’s real!” She gave a little involuntary shudder.

“I hope every spy will be caught and shot,” remarked Ada, the belligerent.

“German spies, you mean,” corrected Kitty. “Our boys have to be spies sometimes, too, you know. All spies are not wicked. There were AndrÉ and Nathan Hale, for instance.”

Before Ada could reply, somebody announced that the bus was in sight, and in another moment it had rattled up to the door. Miss Minton and Miss Laura came hurrying out to say good-bye, and there was a great deal of chattering and laughter, as the twelve girls and their belongings were packed into the big stage. They were to be accompanied to New York by Madame and Miss Brown, the physical-culture teacher, there to be met by friends or relatives.

“School isn’t such a bad place, after all,” said Angel, wiping her eyes, as the bus turned out of Miss Minton’s gate into the village street. “I never knew how much I liked Miss Minton until I was saying good-bye to her, and we have had some jolly times, even if the teachers were strict, and the lessons hard.”

“People always talk like that on ‘Breaking-Up’ day,” said Ada, with a superior smile. “You’ll feel differently when September comes. I thought I never could bear to come back the second year, but Mother insisted, and I’m not sorry I came now the term is over.”

“I wonder if we shall all come back next year,” said Amy. “I suppose the war will make a difference in everything. I don’t believe Mother will let me leave her if Jack is away. She says she can’t bear to be parted from both of us.”

“Well, don’t let’s bother about next year, or war, or anything else disagreeable,” said Molly. “Let’s just remember that it’s June, and that we’re all going home for the summer. You look awfully happy, Gretel; I had no idea you’d be so glad to leave school.”

Gretel laughed.

“I am glad,” she said, with a long breath of pure delight. “School is all right, and the Mintons are very kind, but there isn’t any place in the world like home. It seems as if I could hardly wait to get to New York and see Percy and Barbara.”

Molly regarded her friend curiously. It was not the first time the idea had occurred to her that possibly Gretel had not had altogether a comfortable time during the past few months. She had never complained, and had been almost always cheerful, but there were times when her eyes had a sad, hurt look in them, and those were generally the times when some one had made a sharp or thoughtless allusion to her German antecedents. Molly was a kind-hearted girl, and really fond of Gretel, and she made a sudden resolve to try to make up to her friend for some of the half-unintentional slights she had received.

They were a very merry party on the train, and a source of much amusement to their fellow-travelers, during the short journey, but as they drew near to the great city, where they were to separate, everybody was suddenly aware of feeling just a little sad. “You’ll be sure to write once a week, won’t you, Angel?” Amy Bowring whispered to her chum. “It’s going to be terribly lonely without Jack. We always did so many things together, you know.”

“Of course I will,” promised Angel, “and perhaps your mother will let you make me a visit. Beverly isn’t so very far from Bar Harbor.”

“I shall expect a visit from some of you,” declared Margaret. “Mother said I could ask three girls, but the trouble is I want you all, and don’t know which three to choose.”

“We shall have to draw lots,” laughed Kitty. “Then nobody can possibly feel slighted. Why, here we are in the tunnel already; we must hurry and get our things together.”

Five minutes later the suburban train was gliding into the Grand Central Station.

“There’s Jerry!” cried Geraldine, joyfully, as they hurried along the crowded platform, and the next moment she was rapturously hugging a tall schoolboy, whose round, good-humored face displayed an odd mixture of pleasure and embarrassment.

“Oh, Jerry, you darling, I am glad to see you! When did you get home?”

“Last night,” returned her brother, extricating himself, not without some difficulty, from her embrace. “School closed yesterday, and I came home on the Boston Flyer. I say, old girl, you needn’t hug a fellow like that before people, you know. Where’s Gretel?”

“She was here a minute ago,” said Geraldine. “Oh, there she is, talking to Molly Chester. Are Mr. or Mrs. Douaine here?”

“I don’t know; I haven’t seen them. Mother sent me in the car, and it’s waiting outside, so we can drop Gretel at her house just as well as not. Who’s that girl talking to the man with gray hair?”

“That’s Angel Thayer,” said Geraldine, following her brother’s glance. “She’s pretty, isn’t she? I’ll introduce you if I get a chance. That gentleman must be her uncle. Her father has gone to the war. Oh, Jerry, isn’t the war exciting?” “I should say it was! I only wish I were old enough to enlist. Some of the seniors are doing it, but they won’t take a fellow unless he’s over eighteen, worse luck. Oh, there’s Mrs. Douaine, so Gretel’s all right. We may as well go along.”

Gretel had stood a little in the background while her friends were being greeted by their various relatives, but at sight of a very pretty young woman hurrying towards her through the crowd, her face brightened, and she ran eagerly forward to greet her sister-in-law.

“I am so sorry to be late, Gretel dear,” Mrs. Douaine said, kissing her affectionately. “I left home in plenty of time, but we met a regiment marching down Fifth Avenue, and there was such a block in the traffic, I thought I should never get here. Did you give your check to the expressman on the train?”

“Now, do tell me all about everything,” exclaimed Gretel, leaning back in her brother’s comfortable limousine, as they moved away from the station. “Is Percy all right?”

“Yes, but frightfully busy. He has entered heart and soul into war work. By the way, I have a surprise for you. Where do you think we are going to spend the summer?”

“I haven’t the least idea. Not Bar Harbor or Murray Bay, I suppose?”

“No, indeed; nowhere as cool as Maine or Canada. I am afraid we shall have to put up with a good deal of hot weather, but it can’t be helped. You see, Percy expects to be in Washington nearly all summer, and I couldn’t bear the thought of going so far away from him, so we have rented a house there, or rather in the suburbs. It is rather prettily situated, right on the banks of the Potomac, and within very easy distance of the city. We expect to move down the last of next week. How do you think you will enjoy spending a summer in Washington?”

“I shall love it, I am sure,” said Gretel, enthusiastically. “And, oh, Barbara, I want to do some war work, too. It seems as if every one ought to do something to help just a little.”

“Every one is doing something to help,” said Mrs. Douaine. “You have no idea what the women had done already. Two of my best friends have gone over to nurse in Paris hospitals, and three more have joined the woman’s motor corps, and are learning to drive ambulances. I want to help Percy all I can, and, oh, I am so thankful it is Washington for him, and not the trenches. He was determined to go at first, in spite of his being over age, but they turned him down on account of his eyes. He is terribly near-sighted, you know. So now he has asked for home service in Washington, and been accepted.”

Gretel uttered a little sigh of satisfaction, and slipped her hand into her sister-in-law’s.

“I can’t help being thankful he isn’t going,” she said, “though I suppose it must have been a great disappointment to him. Some of the girls’ brothers are going, and it seems so dreadful. Ada Godfrey says we ought to be glad to give our fathers and brothers to the country, but Molly Chester says it’s easy for Ada to talk about giving up, when she hasn’t any one to give herself.” Mrs. Douaine laughed.

“I am afraid that is the way with a good many people,” she said, “but I was willing to let Percy go, though the thought of parting from him almost broke my heart. It must be a wonderful thing to die for one’s country, Gretel.”

“I think I could die for my country if I were a man,” said Gretel, with kindling eyes. “I never realized how much I loved it till the war came, but now every time I see the American flag, I feel as if I wanted to go right off and do something.”

Then Mrs. Douaine spoke of something else, and nothing more was said about the war till the car drew up before the house on a quiet, uptown street, which had been Gretel’s home for the past three years.

“It is glorious to be at home, even if all the furniture is covered up in brown linen,” cried Gretel, joyfully, as she followed her sister-in-law up-stairs, after greeting the elderly butler and smiling parlor maid in the front hall. “Your room hasn’t been disturbed yet,” said Mrs. Douaine. “I wouldn’t have it touched till you came home. I thought it would seem more homelike to find everything just as usual. The rest of the house is pretty well dismantled, however. There’s so much to be done, and we may remain in Washington till the war is over.”

“You are a dear, Barbara!” exclaimed Gretel, heartily. “It will be lovely to find all my things just as I left them. I do love that room so. I dream about it sometimes at school. But I’d love to help with the packing. You have no idea what a good packer I have grown to be. The girls all get me to help them with their trunks. Ah, here’s Dora.” And she paused to shake hands with a rosy-cheeked maid, who was awaiting them at the head of the stairs.

There was no doubt of the fact that Dora was pleased to welcome her young lady home. Her honest face fairly beamed with pleasure, and she followed Gretel to her room, and insisted on unpacking her suit-case. “You’ll spoil me if you wait on me too much,” protested Gretel, laughing. “We have to wait on ourselves at school. I’ve made my own bed every morning all winter.”

Dora looked rather shocked.

“Well, you won’t make your own bed here, that’s one sure thing,” she announced, with decision. “I don’t see why young ladies want to do their own work.”

“I believe you have imbibed some of Higgins’s English ideas about young ladies,” laughed Gretel. “I never shall forget her horror when Percy and Barbara said I might go out by myself. ‘Such a proceeding had never been heard of in the Henglish Haristocracy.’ By the way, has any one heard from Higgins lately?”

“Yes, Miss, Martha had a letter last week. She’s decided to stay on in England with her sister, whose two sons have been killed in the war. She asked to be respectfully remembered to all the family.”

Gretel’s bright face clouded, and she suddenly laid down the brush with which she had been smoothing her hair, preparatory to going down to luncheon.

“Two sons killed,” she exclaimed in horror. “Oh, Dora, how perfectly dreadful!”

“Yes, it is dreadful,” agreed the maid, with a sigh, “and now this country’s gone in, it’s going to be worse still. Peter’s enlisted.”

“Peter! Why, Dora, how could he? He isn’t seventeen yet.”

“They wouldn’t have taken him if they’d known how young he was,” said Dora, not without some pride in her tone, “but he fibbed about his age, and they accepted him. Mother’s been crying her eyes out about his going, but Father says if a boy has got pluck enough to do a thing like that, he isn’t going to interfere. Peter’s at Camp Schuyler now, and he expects to be sent over any time. I wish you could see him in his uniform.”

“I wish I could,” said Gretel, “but it does seem rather queer. Things are changing so fast. Why, it was only three or four years ago that Peter was just a mischievous little boy. Do you remember the night he and Lillie came to play and sing for me at Mrs. Marsh’s, and the grand row over the cream puffs?” Gretel laughed merrily over the childish recollection, but she was grave again in a moment.

“I can’t think of Peter going to the war,” she said. “He is the first person I really know well who is actually going, and it seems to make it all so much more real. I am very sorry for your mother, Dora, and for all of you.”

“We’re no worse off than thousands of others,” said Dora, philosophically. “Now do let me take off those heavy boots, Miss Gretel. They’re much too thick to wear in the house this hot day, and there’s a nice pair of slippers in the closet.”

Gretel was still looking rather grave when she joined her sister-in-law at the luncheon table. But Mrs. Douaine was too busy and preoccupied herself to notice it.

“I am so sorry to leave you on your first afternoon, Gretel,” she said, regretfully, “but I have no end of things to attend to before we leave for Washington. Do you mind staying at home, or would you rather come out with me?”

“I think I’ll stay at home unless you need me for anything,” said Gretel. “There is always something rather exciting in going over all my old treasures when I haven’t seen them for three months, and besides, I want to play on the dear old piano. I suppose Percy is in Washington.”

“He has been for the past week, but I have just received a telegram, saying he’s coming home for a few days. He said he would be here this afternoon, but didn’t mention the train, so I can’t meet him at the station.”

Gretel looked pleased. She was very fond of her brother, and the thought of his absence had been the one shadow on her home-coming.

“I am so glad,” she said. “Oh, it is good to know we are going to be all together this summer! You must give me lots of work to do, Barbara; I want to be busy every minute. Of course we’ve been doing a lot of knitting at school. I’ve made three pairs of socks for the soldiers already. I was the only girl who knew how to knit socks, and I taught Molly and Angel Thayer.”

“And how did you learn yourself?” Mrs. Douaine asked in some surprise.

Gretel laughed and blushed.

“I hardly know how I did learn,” she said. “Old Mrs. Lippheim taught me to knit when I was nine, and I suppose knitting comes to me naturally. Ada Godfrey says it comes from my German ancestors.”

Gretel spoke cheerfully, but there was a little embarrassment in her tone which her sister-in-law did not fail to notice.

“I hope none of the girls have made unkind remarks about your German ancestors,” she said, rather anxiously.

Gretel’s eyes dropped, and she became suddenly very much interested in the contemplation of her salad.

“Oh, no,” she answered, evasively, “I don’t think any one meant to be unkind. Ada has a sharp way of saying things sometimes, but I suppose she can’t help it. She was very fond of an uncle, who was lost on the Lusitania, and that has made her feel very bitterly towards the Germans. All the other girls were lovely to me.” And then Gretel changed the subject by inquiring for some New York friends, and nothing more was said about Ada or her prejudices.