It was the glorious Fourth. The boys had been celebrating since early morning, when they had aroused the household by setting off a pack of giant crackers on the front lawn. There had been a picnic lunch in the woods, an exciting tennis tournament at the Country Club in the afternoon, and now they were dressing for the principal event of the day: the big subscription dance at the summer hotel, for which all the neighborhood had bought tickets.

“It’s the first really grown-up party I’ve ever been to,” remarked Geraldine, as she stood before the bureau, brushing out her long hair. “I suppose I shall be the youngest girl there, and the boys won’t even look at me. Don’t you think, Gretel, I might try putting up my hair? I could take it right down again if it looked queer.” “I wouldn’t if I were you,” advised Gretel. “You are only fourteen, you know, and I don’t believe your mother would like it. You’ll have plenty of partners, I’m sure, even if your hair isn’t up. Stephen has promised to look after you, and as soon as people find out what a good dancer you are, they’ll all want to dance with you.”

Geraldine sighed, but submitted to her friend’s superior judgment. As a rule, she was quite indifferent to her personal appearance, but this was a very particular occasion, and besides, Geraldine had been growing up rather fast during the past few weeks.

“I wish Jerry were going,” she said, regretfully. “He’d dance with me if nobody else did, but he hates parties; and Mrs. Chester thinks he’s too young to have a good time. Your dress is lovely, Gretel, and I never saw you look prettier.”

Gretel flushed with pleasure. It is pleasant to be admired, even by a girl a year younger than one’s self. Those weeks of sea air had certainly done Gretel good. There was a color in her cheeks, and a light in her eyes, that had not been there during her first few days at the Chesters’. Since that Sunday afternoon, now more than a week ago, nothing had occurred to trouble or annoy her. She had not seen Fritz Lippheim again, and Ada Godfrey, as if to atone for her cousin’s rudeness, had been unusually kind and tactful. The Chester family all liked her, and she had found a real friend in Mrs. Cranston. She had good news from her own family in Washington, and altogether her days had been very happy ones.

“I’m so glad you like my dress,” she said. “Barbara bought it for me that last day in New York, and there wasn’t any time for alterations. If my hair were as long and thick as yours, I’m sure I shouldn’t mind having people see it. Let me help you on with your dress. I think we ought to hurry a little; it’s after eight.”

At that moment Molly, already dressed for the evening, appeared in the doorway.

“How nice you both look!” she exclaimed admiringly. “If you knew how becoming your long hair was, Geraldine, you would never want to put it up. Oh, Gretel dear, I’m so sorry you’re going away to-morrow.”

“You’re not any sorrier than I am myself,” said Gretel. “I’ve had a perfectly lovely visit, and would give anything to stay till Monday, and go home with the Barlows. But it couldn’t be arranged. Percy doesn’t know when he may be in New York again after to-morrow, and he and Barbara don’t want to let me travel alone.”

“I know,” said Molly, “but that doesn’t make it any easier to let you go. You’ll have a long time to wait in New York, if your brother doesn’t leave till the night train. Is your house open?”

“Oh, yes, there’s a caretaker in charge, and Percy often spends the night there when he is in New York. I shall manage very comfortably, and Percy will take me out to dinner.”

“You might go to see Mother,” Geraldine suggested. “She’d love to see you and you could tell her all about us. But be sure not to mention that the rowboat upset the other day, and Jerry and I had to swim ashore. She’d be sure to think we had both been drowned, and you were trying to break it to her gently.”

“We have had some pretty jolly times together, haven’t we?” remarked Molly.

“You ought to have heard some of the nice things Mother and Aunt Dulcie were saying about you two girls this afternoon. Here comes Kitty; doesn’t she look grand? I say, Kit, that dress is the most becoming thing you ever wore. Let’s go down and show ourselves to Mother and Aunt Dulcie before we put on our wraps.”

Mr. and Mrs. Chester and Mrs. Cranston were awaiting the young people on the piazza, and ten minutes later they were all in the motor-boat, crossing to the opposite shore where stood the big hotel—a landmark for miles around.

“What a lovely night it is,” remarked Mrs. Cranston, as the boat moved away from the pier. “I feel just like going to a party. I haven’t been to one in ages.” “I don’t believe you will ever grow old, Dulcie,” her brother-in-law said, smiling. “Molly and I have reached the age when dances rather bore us, except for the pleasure of watching our young people have a good time.”

“I sometimes feel as if I were younger now than when I was twelve,” said Mrs. Cranston. “I used to think then that I had the cares of the world on my shoulders, with three younger sisters to look after. We didn’t have many parties in those days, did we, Molly? Do you remember our birthdays, and the queer presents we gave each other?”

“Yes, indeed,” her sister answered, “and how wonderful the first Christmas seemed after Papa married again, and we went to live with him and Mama.”

“Oh, do tell us about it,” urged Geraldine. “I love hearing about your experiences when you were little girls.”

Mrs. Cranston laughed, and began a story, which lasted till they reached the landing. She was a great favorite with young people, and her stories, whether written or told, were always fascinating.

“How gay The Griswold looks with all the lights,” said Geraldine, as they walked up the path to the hotel. “Just look at that line of automobiles. Everybody must be here.”

“Listen to the music!” cried Kitty. “Doesn’t it sound gay? I want to begin dancing right off. Do you think it’s wicked to want to dance in war time, Mrs. Cranston?”

“Not in the least,” Mrs. Cranston assured her, smilingly. “Young people should enjoy themselves while they can. Ah, here comes Steve. I was sure he would be looking for us.”

Stephen was looking for them, and so were Jimmy Fairfax and several other young sailors, whose acquaintance the girls had made since coming to New London, and in a very few minutes they had all made their way to the ballroom, and even Geraldine had been provided with a partner.

Gretel was fond of dancing, and moreover, she danced exceedingly well. Before the evening was half over, she had decided that she was having the “time of her life.”

“I have hardly seen anything of you,” Stephen complained, coming up to her, where she stood fanning herself by his mother’s side. “I’ve looked for you several times, but you were always dancing. Have you a partner for the next?”

Gretel admitted that she had not.

“Then dance it with me, and let me take you in to supper afterwards. I say, Mother, just look at Geraldine. She’s danced every dance. The fellows are all crazy about her; she’s so jolly and unaffected.”

“I’m so glad Geraldine is having a good time,” said Gretel, as she and Stephen moved away to the music of a lively one-step. “She was afraid no one would notice her because her hair wasn’t up. It was awfully good of you to introduce so many boys to her.”

Stephen laughed.

“Geraldine’s all right,” he said. “I’m sure the fellows like her much better than that affected Ross girl, staying at the Godfreys’. By the way, your friend Ada is more patriotic than ever to-night. I’ve heard her lecturing three separate partners on their duty to their country.”

“Poor Ada,” said Gretel, laughing, “she really is tremendously in earnest. Molly says Ada’s greatest fault is an absence of the sense of humor.”

At that very moment Ada, at the other end of the ballroom, was remarking to her partner, Jimmy Fairfax:

“Gretel Schiller seems to be having a good time. I believe she has danced every dance.”

“Well, why shouldn’t she?” Jimmy inquired innocently.

Ada, who had herself sat out several dances for lack of partners, pursed her lips solemnly.

“Oh, no reason at all,” she said, “as long as she can enjoy it. I can’t see how people can care about such frivolous things in these serious times. I wouldn’t have come to-night if it hadn’t been for those girls I have staying with me. Mother didn’t think it would be right to deprive them of the pleasure.” “Well, I suppose we may as well enjoy ourselves while we can,” young Fairfax said, apologetically. “There won’t be much enjoyment for us when we get overseas. Miss Gretel seems to be a great favorite.”

“Oh, Gretel’s all right,” Ada admitted. “Everybody likes her. I was only wondering how she can take pleasure in anything when she remembers that her father was a German. If I had only one drop of German blood in my veins I should bow my head in shame.”

“It is pretty rough on Miss Gretel,” said Jimmy, “especially if she has German relatives. The Government is getting more severe on German-Americans every day.”

“Oh, Gretel hasn’t any German relatives; at least none in this country,” Ada explained. “You see, her mother was an American, and she lives with her half-brother, Mr. Douaine. He’s doing Government work in Washington, and Gretel is going there when she leaves here. I have heard her say she doesn’t even know any Germans except our teacher at school.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the young man in a tone of so much surprise that Ada inquired curiously:

“Why do you say ‘Indeed’ in that incredulous way? You don’t know anything about Gretel’s friends, do you?”

“Nothing whatever, except——”

“Except what?” demanded Ada, sharply.

“Oh, nothing worth mentioning. I happened to see her talking to a man the other day, that’s all. I thought he looked like a German, but I may have been mistaken, of course.”

Ada’s eyes grew round, and her cheeks flushed.

“Where did you see her?” she inquired. “You ought to be willing to tell me all about it now you’ve begun.”

Jimmy Fairfax was beginning to look decidedly uncomfortable.

“It was in New London,” he said, “one afternoon about ten days ago. They were standing in front of one of the shops, and seemed to be talking very earnestly together. Miss Gretel didn’t see me, but I was just going to speak to her when they turned down one of the side streets. Afterwards I met Mrs. Chester, and she told me she was waiting for Gretel Schiller, who had left her to do some shopping. When she joined us a few minutes later, I thought she was looking rather flushed and excited.”

Ada looked very serious.

“It sounds queer,” she said. “Didn’t Gretel say anything about having met a friend?”

“Well, no, she didn’t,” Jimmy admitted, reluctantly, “but then I left them in a moment, and she may have told Mrs. Chester later.”

“Why didn’t you ask her about it the next time you saw her?”

“I didn’t think it was exactly my business. Miss Gretel had a right to speak to a friend in the street, even if he did happen to be a German.”

“Everything is our business in war time,” said Ada, virtuously. “We ought to investigate everything that seems in the least suspicious.” “But there may not have been anything suspicious about this,” Jimmy objected.

“Not if she had mentioned it afterwards, of course, but I think her not saying anything to Mrs. Chester about having met a friend was decidedly queer. I shall ask her to explain the next time we meet.”

“Please don’t do anything of the sort,” urged the young man, reddening. “She would have every right to consider me an impertinent meddler. I am sorry I ever mentioned the matter at all.”

Jimmy was looking very much distressed, and Ada—who was not without a goodly share of coquetry in her nature—began to see an opportunity for teasing.

“Perhaps I won’t say anything to Gretel,” she conceded, “if you are very nice to me all the rest of the evening, but if you dance any more with that silly little Geraldine Barlow, who is really much too young to be here at all, I won’t promise what I may do. Of course I know Gretel is really all right, but I am terribly curious about that German.” Having finished their dance, Gretel and Stephen made their way to the crowded supper room. They were very warm, and rather tired, and the prospect of ices and lemonade was very alluring.

“You’d better wait here, and let me see what I can get,” said Stephen, pausing in the doorway. “There is such a crowd around the tables, I think I can manage better alone.”

Gretel agreed, and having found a chair for her, her partner hurried away and was speedily lost to sight in the crowd. It was rather amusing to watch the hurrying, chattering throng, and Gretel was enjoying the novel experience thoroughly, when her attention was suddenly attracted by the sight of a gentleman in evening clothes, who had just entered the room. In an instant all her pleasure was gone; her heart gave a great bound and began beating very fast, for the man was Fritz Lippheim. He was evidently alone, but appeared quite at home in his new surroundings, and was moving leisurely towards one of the tables. He passed so close to Gretel that she could have put out her hand and touched him, but if he recognized her, he made not the slightest sign, and Gretel, flushing and trembling, sank back in her seat, wishing with all her heart that she had never come to the dance.

It was just at that moment that another man paused in passing Fritz to say in a friendly tone:

“Good-evening, Martin. Glad to see you here to-night.”

“Good-evening,” responded Fritz Lippheim, who did not look at all surprised or embarrassed by his new name, and then the two passed on, and Gretel heard no more of their conversation.

“Here I am at last,” said Stephen. “I began to think it was hopeless, but I managed to secure some ice-cream and a couple of glasses of lemonade. How warm you look. It is stifling in here. Let’s go out on the piazza. A lot of people are eating there.”

“Yes, oh, yes, let’s go out,” said Gretel, rising, and speaking in a tone of such unmistakable relief that her companion regarded her rather curiously.

“I was sorry to be so long,” he said. “You weren’t frightened or uncomfortable, were you?”

“Not frightened exactly,” said Gretel, trying to laugh, “but—but it was a little uncomfortable. There was such a crowd, you know, and I was all alone.”

Stephen could not help laughing.

“I didn’t know you were so timid,” he said. “I will be careful how I leave you alone again, even for the purpose of getting ice-cream.”

He spoke jestingly, but Gretel’s face was very grave.

“I am a coward,” she said; “I have been a coward all my life, and I am afraid I shall always be one.”

But Stephen refused to take her seriously, and made so merry over the little episode that Gretel found herself laughing, and in a few minutes had regained her usual self-possession. It was much less crowded on the piazza, and having secured a table to themselves, they were soon enjoying ice-cream and lemonade, while the distant dance music fell softly on their ears, mingling with the sound of the water lapping against the pier.

“We have had a jolly two weeks all together, haven’t we?” Stephen remarked, as he set down his empty lemonade glass. “It’s a shame you can’t stay over till Monday, and go back with the Barlows.”

“I wish I could,” said Gretel, “but I must meet my brother in New York to-morrow. He goes back to Washington by the night train, and I’m to go with him. I’ve had a lovely visit, but I’m afraid I’ve been very lazy. It doesn’t seem as if any one ought to be just having a good time now, when there is so much work to be done. My sister-in-law writes that she is busy from morning till night, and I want to help her all I can.”

“Well, I suppose you are right,” Stephen admitted, “but I hate to have the party break up. I have an idea that I shan’t be here very much longer myself.”

Gretel gave a little start. “You mean that your ship is going across?” she asked, with a sudden catch in her voice.

Stephen nodded.

“I haven’t said anything to my mother about it yet, but I think we shall have our sailing orders in a week or two. It will be hard on the mater—I’m her only son, you know, and we’ve always been a lot to each other—but if it were not for her sake, I should be glad to be off. There is plenty of work to be done over there, and it’s quite time we Americans got busy.”

Gretel was silent. Somehow she could not say what she wanted to say just then, and before she had steadied her voice a waiter was asking if he could bring them anything. He appeared so suddenly that it seemed to Gretel as if he must have been standing in the shadow all the time.

“Will you have anything more?” Stephen asked.

Gretel shook her head.

“I couldn’t possibly eat any more,” she said, but as she spoke her eyes were following the waiter, who was gliding quietly away.

“Then let’s go back to the ballroom and have another dance. What are you looking at so intently?”

“It’s—it’s that waiter,” faltered Gretel. “I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I can’t remember where.”

Stephen laughed.

“Nothing very surprising about that,” he said. “You may easily have seen him at some hotel or restaurant. I didn’t notice anything remarkable about his appearance.”

Gretel admitted that such might have been the case, but she did not look altogether satisfied. Somehow the man’s face seemed to haunt her. She had seen it somewhere, and she did not think it was at a hotel or restaurant. Then there was Fritz Lippheim. What was Fritz doing there, and why had that other man addressed him as Martin? She was sure he had recognized her. If he were merely a guest at the dance, why had he avoided speaking to her? It was all very strange and disquieting. In spite of the fact that her visit had been such a pleasant one, Gretel felt suddenly glad that she was leaving New London in the morning. She wanted to be in Washington with Percy and Barbara.