It was four o’clock, and Gretel was at the piano in the dismantled drawing-room, playing softly to herself. The afternoon had been, on the whole, a pleasant one. She had spent an hour looking over her old treasures, which included a bundle of letters, tied together with a red ribbon. They were her greatest treasure of all, for they were all from her father—letters he had written her on his brief absences from home, when she was sent to stay with their kind old German friend Frau Lippheim. Gretel always read those letters over at least once during the holidays, and generally cried a little during the reading, but even that was not altogether unpleasant, for Gretel possessed just enough German sentimentality to rather enjoy the luxury of a few comfortable tears. She had cried rather more than usual to-day, and as she put the old letters back in the drawer of her desk, had whispered softly:

“Dear Father; you were so good and kind to every one. Surely there must be other good Germans in the world as well as you.”

Then she had had another little chat with Dora, and been shown the photograph of the hero Peter—Dora’s younger brother—taken in his uniform, and now she had gone to the drawing-room for an hour of music.

She had just finished the first movement of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” when she was rather startled by a ring at the front door-bell. The house had been so quiet all the afternoon, that any sound would have been startling, and, thinking her brother might have arrived earlier than he was expected, she paused in her playing to listen. She heard the front door open, a murmur of voices, followed by approaching footsteps, and the butler appeared in the doorway.

“A lady to see you, Miss Gretel.”

“To see me, Johnson!” and Gretel sprang from the piano stool in surprise. The next moment she had caught sight of another figure, close behind Johnson, and was hurrying forward to meet it.

“Why, FrÄulein, how good of you to come so soon! I only got home this morning.”

Gretel’s tone was cordial, but she was conscious of a sudden sinking of her heart. She was glad to see her old friend, she told herself, of course she was very glad indeed, and yet—and yet—she could not help wishing FrÄulein had not come quite so soon.

“How delightfully cool it is in here!” exclaimed the German woman, sinking wearily down upon the sofa. “The streets are like an oven. This American heat is frightful.”

“Let me fan you,” cried Gretel, eager to atone for that slight feeling of discomfort, and seizing a fan from the table, she began plying it with rather unnecessary vigor.

“It is refreshing,” murmured FrÄulein, half closing her eyes. She was really looking very worn and tired, Gretel thought. “Oh, it is good to see you again, my child. Have you missed me?” “It seemed very strange after you went away,” said Gretel, trying to evade a direct reply to the question. “I missed my German lessons very much. How did you know I was coming home to-day?”

“I knew the school was to close on the fourteenth, and felt sure you would all leave by the morning train, as you did last year. I could not let the day pass without seeing you; I have missed you so terribly.”

There was gentle reproach in FrÄulein’s tone, and it made Gretel vaguely uncomfortable, although she could not help being flattered as well.

“I hope you have gotten my letters,” she said, anxiously.

“Oh, yes, and it was good of you to write, but letters are not the same as speaking face to face, and I have missed my favorite pupil sadly.”

FrÄulein put out her hand, and Gretel, supposing she was expected to take it, did so, and had her fingers squeezed affectionately.

“You wrote that you were going as governess to a German family,” she said. “I thought you would have left New York before I came back.”

“I did leave,” said FrÄulein. “I went to Long Island for a week, but I did not like the family. The children did not treat me with proper respect.”

“And are you back at your aunt’s now?” Gretel asked.

“Yes, and I am happier there than I ever expected to be. There is nothing to draw people together like a great common sorrow.”

“Oh, has anything dreadful happened in your family?” Gretel’s voice was full of real concern now.

“Not in our family, but our country—the Fatherland. I was alluding to the war.”

“Oh,” said Gretel, “of course; I didn’t think. But your uncle is too old for the draft; he won’t have to go, will he?”

“Certainly not,” said FrÄulein, “and thank God for it. You would not have a German fight against his country?”

“No, of course not, but your uncle has been in this country so many years. He is an American citizen, is he not?”

“That fact cannot make him untrue to the Fatherland,” said FrÄulein, reproachfully. “What a strange idea you Americans have of patriotism. Your father would say so if he were living to-day.”

“I don’t think he would,” said Gretel, decidedly. “He might still love his country, but he would not approve of the terrible things Germany has done. He would be loyal to America, where he had lived so many years. Hasn’t your uncle made most of his money here?”

“Money, money,” repeated the German woman, scornfully, “you Americans are always thinking of money. As if getting rich were the only important thing in this world. My uncle would not allow such a sordid consideration to interfere with his duty. He is a true patriot, and his country comes before everything else.”

“You like him better than you used to, don’t you?” said Gretel, innocently. “You always said he was so hard and unkind, and did not make your aunt very happy.”

FrÄulein colored and bit her lip.

“I did not understand him as well as I do now,” she explained. “One sometimes makes mistakes. I have learned many things in these sad months.”

“I am glad you like him better,” said Gretel; “it must make living in his house much pleasanter. Are you looking for another position?”

“Not just now. Positions for Germans are not easily found in these days. I shall probably spend the summer with my uncle and aunt. I am helping them in many little ways, and they seem to enjoy having me with them. But tell me about yourself, and how it is that all the rugs and ornaments are put away? Are you leaving town at once?”

“We are going to Washington next week,” said Gretel, and she repeated what her sister-in-law had told her of their summer plans. FrÄulein looked much interested.

“Washington will be interesting,” she said; “you will meet people and hear things. I suppose there is no hope of their wanting a governess or companion for you during the summer?”

FrÄulein spoke so eagerly that Gretel felt very sorry to have to disappoint her hopes.

“I am afraid not,” she said, regretfully; “indeed, I am quite sure they don’t. I am going to help Barbara all I can in her war work, and I really don’t need a companion, you know.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do,” agreed FrÄulein, with a sigh. “I only hoped it might be possible. It would be a great joy to me, but alas! I know it cannot be.”

“Let me ring for tea,” exclaimed Gretel, springing from her seat, with a sudden inspiration. “I know you would like some tea. Shall we have it hot or iced?”

FrÄulein said she would prefer it iced, and when Gretel returned from giving the order, her friend asked her if she would not play something.

“You were playing when I came in,” she said, “and it was so beautiful to hear the dear German music again. My uncle and aunt are not musical, and I have no money for concerts now.”

Gretel was delighted to comply with this request, and the next half hour slipped away very pleasantly. When the tea was brought in, FrÄulein sipped hers leisurely, and ate frosted cakes, while Gretel gave her all the latest school news, in which, however, she did not appear quite as much interested as her young hostess expected. Only once did she manifest any particular interest, and that was when Gretel happened to mention that Molly Chester and Ada Godfrey were both spending the summer at New London.

“Molly has asked me to visit her,” Gretel prattled on. “I should love to go, for I like Molly so much, but I may not be able, as Washington is so far away. Percy and Barbara don’t like to have me travel alone.”

“If they should want some one to travel with you,” said FrÄulein, in a tone of suddenly aroused interest, “I should be very glad to offer my services. It might not be convenient to send a maid, and I would not in the least mind going to Washington to meet you.”

Before Gretel could answer, there was another ring at the door-bell, and quite forgetting her visitor for the moment, she eagerly started to her feet.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” she said, hurriedly. “I think it may be my brother, and I am so anxious to see him. Barbara said he would be here some time this afternoon.” And, without waiting for FrÄulein’s permission, she ran out into the hall, and in another moment was greeting a tall gentleman, with brown hair, and eyes like her own.

“Well, well!” exclaimed Mr. Douaine, kissing his little sister affectionately, and then holding her off at arm’s length; “this is a pleasant surprise. I thought you were not due before to-morrow. How well you are looking. School life certainly seems to agree with you. Is Barbara at home?”

“No,” said Gretel; “she had to go out to attend to some things, but she told me to tell you she would hurry back as early as she could. You look awfully tired, Percy; did you have a hot journey?”

“Beastly. Between the heat and the dust, we were almost suffocated. It’s good to get home, though, even if only for a day or two. What do you think of Barbara’s summer plans?”

“I love them,” said Gretel. “I am sure Washington will be tremendously interesting. Come in and have some tea. It’s all ready, and iced, too, just the way you like it. I have a friend here, but you won’t mind her.”

Mr. Douaine said that he certainly would not mind meeting any friend of Gretel’s, and followed his sister into the drawing-room.

“This is my friend FrÄu—— Miss Sieling,” said Gretel, thinking that possibly her visitor might prefer to drop the German prefix under present circumstances. “I am sure you have heard me speak of her, Percy. She was very kind to me when I first went to Miss Minton’s.”

Mr. Douaine smiled, and shook hands with the visitor, while Miss Sieling blushed, and murmured something ending with “Anything I have ever done for dear Gretel has been only a pleasure to myself.” Then they all sat down, but it soon became evident to Gretel that her friend was not as much at her ease as usual, and in a short time she rose to go.

“Oh, don’t go yet,” cried Gretel, hospitably. “I haven’t told you half the school news, and it isn’t more than five o’clock.”

But FrÄulein persisted in her intention of leaving at once. The air was so heavy, she said, she was sure there would be a thunder-storm before long.

“And you know how nervous I am in a thunder-storm,” she added, “so don’t urge me to run the risk of being caught out in one.”

Gretel said no more, but accompanied her guest to the front door, after FrÄulein and Mr. Douaine had exchanged a cool farewell.

“Come and see me, Liebchen,” whispered FrÄulein, whose manner had resumed all its old warmth the moment they were out of Mr. Douaine’s hearing. “My aunt told me to be sure to appoint an afternoon when you can come to tea.”

Gretel hesitated.

“I am not sure if I can,” she faltered. “We are going to Washington so soon, you know. I may not have a spare afternoon.”

But FrÄulein would not hear of any such flimsy excuses.

“If you do not come I shall be offended,” she protested. “I shall think you no longer care for me, and that would make me very unhappy. My aunt would be offended, too. You used to say you liked her German cookies, and it pleased her so much. Suppose we say next Tuesday. You do not go to Washington until the last of the week.”

FrÄulein was so very urgent that it really seemed impossible to refuse her invitation without being rude, and, as Gretel had no wish to hurt her old friend’s feelings, she finally gave a rather half-hearted consent, and the engagement was made for the following Tuesday afternoon.

“If anything should happen to prevent, I will either write or telephone,” Gretel added, by way of a proviso.

“Certainly, but you must not let anything prevent. My aunt is very fond of you, and she does not like many people.”

Gretel was a little surprised to hear this, for on the one or two occasions when she had gone to tea at FrÄulein’s aunt’s, that lady—a stout German with a dull, placid expression, had not appeared to take any particular notice of her. Indeed, FrÄulein had once confided in German that her aunt was “Good, but dull.”

“They must care a great deal more about each other than they used to,” she reflected, as she stood for a moment on the steps, watching her friend pass out of sight. “I suppose the war has drawn them together. It must be very hard for Germans in this country, and I do feel sorry for them, but I can’t help wishing FrÄulein hadn’t urged me so much to come to tea.”

Mr. Douaine was leaning back in an armchair, comfortably sipping his second glass of iced tea, when Gretel returned. He certainly did look tired and a little troubled as well.

“Come and sit down, little girl,” he said, kindly. “I am glad that friend of yours is afraid of thunder-storms. I want you to myself for a little while.”

“She—she is very pleasant, don’t you think so?” faltered loyal Gretel, as she took the seat by her brother’s side.

“I have no doubt she can be very pleasant when she feels inclined,” Mr. Douaine answered, smiling. “She is a trifle too German to suit my taste, but that isn’t her fault. I don’t think she took to me any more than I took to her.”

“She did seem rather stiff,” Gretel admitted. “Perhaps the thunder in the air made her nervous. She was awfully good to me at school, and I really am fond of her.”

“Certainly you are fond of her, and there is no reason why you should not be. I dare say she is all right, but—well, the fact is, I am afraid I am prejudiced. One hears such dreadful things about the Germans in these days.”

“Percy,” said Gretel, with a catch in her voice, “if Father were alive, do you believe he would approve of the things the Germans have done?”

“No, Gretel, I do not,” her brother answered, decidedly. “Your father was one of the best men I have ever known in my life.”

Gretel gave a long sigh of intense relief.

“I am so glad you feel that way, too,” she said, softly. “I was always quite sure myself, but one of the girls at school——”

“You don’t mean that some one has been making you uncomfortable on account of your father!” exclaimed Mr. Douaine, indignantly, as Gretel paused in some embarrassment. “Such a thing would be simply outrageous.”

“Oh, no,” said Gretel, “at least perhaps she didn’t mean to make me uncomfortable. Almost every one has been kind, the Mintons, and all the teachers, even Madame. Most of the girls are kind, too, but Ada Godfrey hates the Germans more than the rest, because her uncle was drowned on the Lusitania. But, Percy, I can’t help being very sorry for the Germans in this country. They didn’t cause the war, and people are so unkind to them. FrÄulein was dreadfully unhappy at school.”

“I have no doubt there are many loyal Germans here,” said Mr. Douaine, “and some of them have probably been treated most unjustly, but I am afraid the few must suffer for the faults of the many. Since I have been in Washington I have learned many things, which I would scarcely have believed possible six months ago. I have no objection to your seeing your German friend, especially if it gives you both pleasure, but I wouldn’t advise you to be very intimate. But, hark! isn’t that a car stopping? It must be Barbara.” And Mr. Douaine hurried away to greet his wife, leaving his sister looking unusually grave and troubled.

Gretel was still looking grave when she returned to her own room. Her brother’s words, kind though they had been, had revealed his knowledge of, and belief in, something of which she had read, and heard people talk, but had never believed herself. Was it possible that people—her own father’s people—could be disloyal to the country of their adoption? Certainly FrÄulein had said some strange things, but then FrÄulein was so excitable.

She found Dora waiting for her in her room.

“Oh, Miss Gretel,” began the maid eagerly, “I’ve had such a surprise. Who do you think is down-stairs in the kitchen?”

“I have no idea,” said Gretel, smiling. “Not Peter?”

“Yes, Peter. They gave the boys a holiday, and Peter came up from the camp this afternoon. He’s been to see Mother, and just stopped in here for a minute on his way back. He looks just grand in his uniform.”

“I should love to see him,” said Gretel. “Has he the time to spare?”

“Yes, Miss, and he’s crazy to see you, and say good-bye. He thinks the regiment may be sent over very soon.”

“I’ll come right down,” said Gretel, good-naturedly, and three minutes later, she was shaking hands with a tall, red-haired youth in the uniform of a United States Private.

“I am so glad you waited to see me,” she said. “Why, Peter, how fine you look, and how you have grown!”

In his pleasure and embarrassment, Peter blushed until his cheeks were as red as his hair. He stammered out something about hoping he hadn’t been too bold, and shook Gretel’s hand as if it were a pump-handle.

“Bold!” cried Gretel, indignantly; “what nonsense! I should never have forgiven you if you had gone away without bidding me good-bye. Why, Peter, think what old friends we are. Do you remember the cream puffs, and how you recognized me the day I was run over?”

Peter grinned.

“That was a good while ago,” he said. “I was a kid then.”

“You are not so very old yet,” said Gretel, and there was a tremor in her voice. “Oh, Peter, I am sorry you are going. Of course I am proud of you for wanting to, but——” “I’m all right,” interrupted Peter, gruffly, but blushing more than ever. “All the fellows are crazy to go. A lot of them got turned down, but they accepted me because of my size. Don’t you worry, Miss Gretel, or Dora either. We’ll come back all right, and if we don’t lick them Germans before the year’s out, my name’s not Peter Grubb.”

Peter paused abruptly, warned by a glance from his sister, and suddenly grew very much embarrassed.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Gretel,” he said, awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to say anything about them, but you see——”

“I know how you all feel,” said Gretel, blushing in her turn. “My father was a German, but I know he would not have approved of this terrible war. I am sure there must be other good Germans, who feel as he would have felt.”

“Maybe there are,” Peter admitted, reluctantly, “but they’ve got to be licked all the same. I guess I’ve got to go now; we were told to be back at camp before nine.” A lump rose in Gretel’s throat, as she held out her hand to her old friend. Peter was the first person she knew who was actually going to the war. What if she were never to see him again? She had read of the dead and wounded lying in the trenches for days. Oh, war was very, very terrible.

“Good-bye, Peter,” she said: “you are a brave boy, and—and—God bless you, Peter, and bring you back safely.”

Gretel was crying softly when she went up-stairs, leaving Dora to have a few last words with her brother. She was very quiet at dinner, although Percy and Barbara did their best to make her first evening at home a pleasant one. She could not banish the vision of Peter’s bright, confident young face. She had never before thought of freckled, red-haired Peter Grubb without a smile, but to-night her old playmate had suddenly appeared in the character of a hero. How many brave young heroes there were, all going, like Peter, with light, confident hearts, “to lick the Germans.” They would not all come back. It was a very hot, sultry evening, and they sat in the drawing-room with all the windows open, chatting pleasantly, but always with that strange, new undercurrent of sadness. Once the silence of the quiet street was broken by the shrill cry of an Extra. Mr. Douaine bought the paper, which told of a German victory, and of a long list of casualties. By and by Mr. Douaine asked for some music, and his wife went to the piano. For a few moments her fingers wandered idly over the keys, and then she began to play. At the first notes Gretel’s heart gave a great bound, and the grateful tears started to her eyes. Barbara was playing her father’s Sonata, and Gretel knew that it was for her sake.

“How good she is,” the girl said to herself; “oh, how good she and Percy have always been to me!”

Later, Gretel took her turn at the piano, and as usual, forgot everything else in the music she loved, but when she had kissed her brother and his wife good-night, and found Dora waiting for her in her room, she remembered Peter again, and the troubled look came back to her eyes. Dora’s own eyes were red, but she was smiling proudly.

“Didn’t the kid look fine?” she inquired eagerly, as she unfastened Gretel’s dress.

“Yes, indeed he did,” responded Gretel, heartily; “I don’t wonder you are proud of him, Dora. He looks years older than when I saw him last Christmas. Do you think he realizes what it all means? He is so young, you know.”

“Yes, Miss, I think he does,” said Dora, with unusual gravity. “He doesn’t talk much about such things—boys don’t, you know—but just the last minute before he left, he kissed me, a thing he hasn’t done since he was a little fellow, and said, ‘If I shouldn’t ever come back, Dora, you’ll take care of Mother, won’t you?’ He said it so serious, and there was a look on his face that most broke my heart to see, but I was proud of him all the same.”

Gretel fell asleep thinking of Peter, and awoke with a start, aroused by a heavy peal of thunder. The storm, which had been threatening all the evening, had broken at last, and rain was pouring in torrents. Gretel sat up in bed, shaking from head to foot. Then came a bright flash of lightning, followed by another peal of thunder, and she lay down again, with a sigh of relief.

“It’s only a thunder-storm,” she murmured; “oh, I’m so glad. I thought for a minute it might be—oh, if the Germans in this country should do anything terrible, as they have done in France and England! I wonder what Percy meant when he said he had found out things in Washington.”