“Mother wants to know if any one would like to go into New London with her,” said Molly, coming into Gretel’s and Geraldine’s room, on the following Saturday afternoon. “She’s going to the station to meet Aunt Dulcie, and has a little shopping to do first. She thought perhaps you might like to go with her.”

“I’m going fishing with the boys,” said Geraldine. “I promised Jerry. He says he hasn’t seen anything of me since we came here.”

“I’d like to go,” said Gretel, looking up from her knitting. “I want to get some more wool for this helmet I’m making for your cousin. I’m afraid I haven’t enough to finish it.” “All right; I’ll tell Mother. I’d like to go myself, but Kitty has a headache, and I’ve promised to stay at home with her. You and Steve seem to be great friends, Gretel.”

“I like him,” said Gretel, simply. “He’s so kind and polite, and when he asked me to make a helmet for him, I was glad to do it.”

Molly laughed.

“It’s rather a joke,” she said, “considering the way he used to tease me about you.”

“Why did he tease you about me?” Gretel inquired, in surprise.

Molly looked a little embarrassed.

“Oh, it was all nonsense, of course,” she said. “It was on account of your name, you know. You see, I used to talk a good deal about you, and he got into the way of calling you—you won’t be offended if I tell you, will you?”

“Not a bit,” promised Gretel, laughing. “What did he call me?”

“Well, I’m afraid it wasn’t a very pretty name, but then, you know, he had never seen you, and hadn’t any idea what you were like. He always spoke of you as ‘Miss Pumpernickel.’”

Gretel and Geraldine both laughed heartily, and Gretel declared Stephen might call her “Miss Pumpernickel” as often as he liked, because she was sure he didn’t mean anything unkind.

“It’s different when people say things in a disagreeable way,” she added, growing grave again.

“I know what you mean,” said Molly, understanding. “I think Ada Godfrey was perfectly disgusting the way she spoke to those girls yesterday afternoon, when we were over at her place playing tennis. It sounded as if she were apologizing for your name being German. Kitty and I both noticed it.”

“I noticed it, too,” said Geraldine, “and I felt like giving Ada a piece of my mind afterwards. I would have done it, if Gretel hadn’t begged me not to.”

“Oh, where is the use?” said Gretel, smiling a little sadly. “We can’t help it if people like to say disagreeable things, and it only makes it worse if we seem to notice. How soon is your mother going to start, Molly?”

“In about half an hour. Aunt Dulcie is coming on the Boston train that gets here at half-past five. She’s been staying with Aunt Maud in Magnolia. I’ll tell Mother you’ll be ready to go with her,” and Molly hurried away.

“You really are a very broad-minded person, Gretel,” remarked Geraldine when Molly had left the room. “Things don’t seem to make you angry, as they do other people, and you always make allowances.”

“I often feel angry inside,” Gretel admitted, honestly, “but I try not to let people see it. After all, every one has a right to express an opinion, and it’s only natural Ada should hate the Germans.”

Gretel had only been at the Chesters’ four days, but she already felt thoroughly at home with the whole family. She had taken a great fancy to kind, cheerful Mrs. Chester, and the thought of the short drive with her was very pleasant. So it was with a very light heart that she ran down-stairs half an hour later to join her hostess at the front door.

The drive was as pleasant as she had anticipated, but it was a very hot afternoon, and as they neared the town the little sea breeze, which had prevented people on the Point from realizing quite how hot it was, entirely died out.

“This heat is really unbearable,” Mrs. Chester declared, as the car turned into the crowded main street. “We will hurry with our shopping, and perhaps have time for a little turn before the train comes. Motoring is about the pleasantest thing one can do on a day like this. You may stop the car right here in the shade, Thomas, and Miss Gretel and I will get out. Now, dear, suppose you do your errand while I attend to a little Saturday marketing, and then we can both come back here. I think you may find your wool at one of those shops on the other side of the street.”

New London streets had seldom been more crowded than on that Saturday afternoon. Besides the usual number of Saturday shoppers, there were many strangers, who had motored into town, and a goodly sprinkling of sailors from the naval station. The streets were lined with motors, and people pushed and jostled each other on the narrow sidewalks. It was a good-natured crowd, however, and Gretel found it rather entertaining. She was obliged to try several shops before finding what she wanted, and was just coming out of a big dry-goods store, with her parcel, when she almost collided with a man who appeared to be lounging idly against the open doorway. He moved aside, murmuring a word of apology, and at the same moment something vaguely familiar in his face caused Gretel to look at him more attentively. In another second she had uttered a cry of joyful recognition, and was holding out both hands to the stranger.

“Fritz, Fritz Lippheim, is it really you?”

In the excitement of that recognition, Gretel had forgotten the war, Germany, everything in the world except the one joyful fact that here was her father’s dear old friend, the man who had been so kind to her when she was a little girl. At the sound of her voice, however, the stranger had drawn back suddenly, and was now regarding her with an expression of mingled surprise and embarrassment.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, stiffly; “I think you are under a mistake. My name—good heavens! I believe it’s little Gretel Schiller!”

“Of course it is!” laughed Gretel. “Oh, Fritz, you don’t know how glad I am to see you. I’ve been wanting to hear something about you and dear Mrs. Lippheim for years and years. My sister-in-law and I tried to find you once, but you had moved, and no one could give us your address. Do tell me about everything. How is your mother?”

A shade of sadness crossed the man’s troubled face.

“My mother is dead,” he answered. “She died nearly three years ago.”

“Oh, Fritz, I am so sorry!” The tears started to Gretel’s eyes. “I always hoped I should see her again some time. She was so good to me always, especially after Father died. I wanted to thank you both for all you did for me then, and so did my brother and sister-in-law.”

Fritz Lippheim glanced uneasily up and down the crowded street.

“I would never have recognized you if you had not spoken, Gretel,” he said. “Why, you are quite grown-up.”

“I am fifteen,” said Gretel. “I was only ten when you saw me last, but I would have known you anywhere. Can’t we go somewhere where it isn’t quite so crowded? I want to ask you about so many things. I have just seen the lady I am with go into that market, so I know she won’t be through her shopping for a few minutes longer.”

For a moment the man hesitated; then he led the way round a corner, into one of the quiet side streets.

“Now that I look at you more closely,” he said, “I can see a strong resemblance to the little Gretel of five years ago. Are you living in New London?”

“No,” said Gretel; “I am only visiting here. I live in New York, with my brother and his wife. You remember my half-brother, Percy Douaine, who was in China when Father died. He came home the next year, and took me to live with him. It was all quite like a Cinderella story, for I wasn’t very happy with Mrs. Marsh and her daughter, and Percy made everything so wonderful and beautiful for me. Now he is married to one of the dearest women in the world, and I am just as happy as I can be—or would be if it were not for this terrible war.”

“Oh, yes, the war; the war has changed many things,” said Fritz Lippheim, with a sigh. “I am sometimes glad to think the little Mother did not live to see these sad days. I suppose you are quite an American now.”

“Oh, yes,” said Gretel; “we are all good Americans, of course. But I am afraid I mustn’t stand talking any longer. My friend may be looking for me. Can’t we meet again somewhere?”

Fritz Lippheim shook his head.

“I fear not,” he said. “War changes many things, as I said before. My business here is of rather a private nature, and—may I ask a favor of you, little Gretel?”

“Certainly,” said Gretel, her face falling. “I will do anything I can for you, Fritz, for the sake of the dear old days.”

“It is merely that you will not mention to any of your friends that you have met me. We may meet again in happier times, when I can explain, but at present I cannot say any more.”

Gretel’s heart gave a great bound of fear, and then sank down, down like lead. She hoped her old friend would not notice how startled she was.

“I won’t tell any one,” she said in a low, embarrassed voice. “I’m sorry I spoke to you, if you didn’t want to be recognized, but I had no idea——” Gretel paused abruptly, fearing the man would hear the tremor in her voice. Fritz Lippheim caught her hand impulsively.

“It isn’t that I am not pleased to see you, Gretel,” he said earnestly. “Indeed, I am glad to find my little friend again, and to know that she has not forgotten me, but there are reasons, important reasons, which I cannot explain at present. Will you try to believe that, Gretel, and not think too unkindly of poor old Fritz?”

His voice was so kind, and his smile reminded her so strongly of the old friend of her childhood that Gretel’s face brightened.

“All right, Fritz,” she said in a very different tone. “Now, I must hurry, or Mrs. Chester will be waiting for me.”

“Good-bye, little girl, and if we meet again here, or anywhere, you will remember that we do not know each other?”

Gretel nodded; she could not trust herself to speak, and in another moment she was hurrying back to the main street in quest of Mrs. Chester.

Mrs. Chester had finished her shopping, and was already in the car, chatting with Jimmy Fairfax, who stood on the curb.

“Oh, I’m afraid I have kept you waiting!” apologized Gretel, rather breathlessly. “I just went round the corner for a minute, and didn’t see you come out of the market.”

“There is no hurry,” said Mrs. Chester, good-naturedly; “I have only just finished my errands. Mr. Fairfax is telling me about the dance they are going to have at The Griswold on the Fourth. All the sailors from the station are to be there, and all the proceeds are to go for the French Ambulance Corps. I must see about getting tickets at once.”

Mr. Fairfax and Gretel shook hands, but though pleasant enough in his manner, Gretel could not help noticing that the young man was regarding her in a rather peculiar manner. She was very silent during the short drive that followed. Try as she might to fix her attention on what Mrs. Chester was saying, her thoughts would insist on wandering back to Fritz Lippheim and his strange request. There had never been anything strange or mysterious about Fritz in the old days, when he came to play his violin at her father’s studio. He had been just a kind, simple young man, who loved children, and was devotedly attached to his old mother. She had stayed with the Lippheims for a short time after her father’s death, and would never forget their goodness to her. But now—ah, it was quite true, war had indeed changed many things. What could Fritz be doing here in New London that was of such a private nature that he must not be recognized? Fritz was a German, born in Berlin. Oh, what did it all mean? Gretel felt suddenly cold and sick with apprehension.

“I think that is one reason why we sisters have been so very close to each other all our lives,” Mrs. Chester was saying in her cheerful, placid voice, and Gretel came back to her present surroundings with the realization that she had not the slightest idea what her companion was talking about.

“Yes, of course, it must be very lovely to have sisters,” she faltered, as Mrs. Chester paused, evidently expecting a comment of some kind. “Molly has told us about some of the funny times you used to have when you were little girls. You knew Mr. Chester then, too, didn’t you?”

“Yes; he was a sort of connection of ours, and used to come and stay at the old house on Washington Square. His grandmother had married our grandfather, and we lived with her for some years after our mother died. I shall never forget the day my sister Dulcie lured Paul and me off to try to rescue a stolen child.” And Mrs. Chester was off again, on another story, during which I fear Gretel’s thoughts wandered more than once.

They reached the station just as the train was coming in, and in the bustle and interest of meeting her sister Mrs. Chester quite forgot Gretel’s inattentiveness, which, indeed, she had scarcely noticed.

Mrs. Chester’s “Literary Sister” was a tall lady, with a strong, clever face, and a crisp, rather abrupt manner, but her eyes and voice were kind, and her greeting to Gretel was a very hearty one.

“I am always so glad to meet any of Molly’s friends,” she said, as she took her seat in the car, between her sister and Gretel. “You know, Molly and I are great chums, despite the difference in our ages. We keep up a steady correspondence all winter, and I really feel quite intimate with all the girls at Miss Minton’s.”

“You will find two more of the Minton girls at the house,” said Mrs. Chester; “Kitty Sharp and Geraldine Barlow. Geraldine’s twin brother is with us, too.”

“I am glad; I like young people. How’s Steve?”

“Very well, and coming to dinner to-night. He would have been at the station to meet you, but couldn’t get off duty. I hope you had a comfortable journey.”

“It was broiling in the train, but I didn’t particularly mind. I was absorbed in a book all the way, and there was an electric fan directly over my seat, which gave some relief. What luxuries all these modern inventions are!”

“They certainly are,” Mrs. Chester agreed. “I sometimes wonder how people lived without the telephone.”

“Do you remember the first time we ever heard of a telephone?” Mrs. Cranston said, smiling. “It was Paul who informed us that there was a telephone at his home in Boston, and that his mother could talk to his father at his office. We decided that it was a great pity such a nice little boy as Paul should be so untruthful. I think Daisy prayed for him.” Mrs. Cranston laughed over the old childish reminiscence, but her face softened at the thought of the little sister who had died so many years ago.

“I remember it well,” said Mrs. Chester, “and I also remember that wonderful story you invented about the princess who possessed a magic music-box that could sing as well as play. Paul has given me a new victrola, by the way; the best we have ever had.”

The sisters chatted on pleasantly, but Gretel scarcely heard what they said. Her thoughts were back in her father’s studio, and she was recalling scene after scene, in which Fritz Lippheim had played his part. As soon as she reached home she slipped away to her own room and, sitting down in a rocking-chair by the open window, sat with folded hands, staring straight before her, for the next half hour. She was aroused at last by the entrance of Geraldine.

“Did you have a good time?” Gretel asked, trying to speak quite naturally, as if nothing unusual had happened.

“Yes, fine,” Geraldine answered, tossing her hat on the bed and subsiding wearily into a chair. “It was pretty hot, but I didn’t mind. Jerry caught a three-pounder; pretty good, wasn’t it? I didn’t get a bite myself, but I enjoyed sitting in the boat and watching the others. I suppose you’ve seen the authoress?”

“Oh, yes, and she is very pleasant. She and Mrs. Chester reminisced all the way home.” “Did you succeed in getting your wool?”

Gretel gave a little start.

“Yes, I got it,” she said, “but—but I don’t seem to remember bringing it home. It isn’t here anywhere, is it?” And she glanced anxiously around the room.

“I don’t see it anywhere,” said Geraldine, rising. “Perhaps you put it away when you came in.”

Gretel opened several bureau drawers, but there was no package to be found.

“I must have dropped it, or left it in the car,” she said. “Oh, I am sorry, for it was hard work getting what I wanted, and I had to try several shops.”

Geraldine looked puzzled.

“It isn’t a bit like you to forget things,” she said. “If it were I, now; but you, of all people! And you were so anxious to get that wool, too. What ever were you thinking about?”

Before Gretel could answer, there was a knock at the door and a maid appeared with a small parcel in her hand. “This was left in the car,” she explained. “Thomas found it, and Mrs. Chester thinks it belongs to Miss Gretel.”

“Well, you didn’t lose it; that’s one comfort,” said Geraldine, glancing at her friend’s flushed, troubled face, when the maid had left the room. “You needn’t look so solemn about it. It isn’t a crime to forget a parcel. I hope nothing disagreeable happened while you were out. You didn’t meet Ada, did you?”

“Why, no,” said Gretel; “what made you think I had?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I just thought you might have met her, and she might have been in one of her patriotic moods. She seems to think that because she can’t go and shoot the Germans, it’s her duty to say all the awful things about them that she can think of. I don’t suppose any American approves of the dreadful things Germany has done, but we don’t think it necessary to be rude to every one who happens to have a German name. She’s got a boy cousin staying with her now, and Jerry and Paul say he’s an awful kid; spoiled to death, by his mother, and thinks he’s of more importance than anybody else, because his father was lost on the Lusitania.”

“Poor boy,” said Gretel, with a sigh; “I don’t blame him for hating the Germans. Oh, Geraldine, I think I realize more and more every day how horribly cruel war is!” And, to Geraldine’s utter astonishment, Gretel suddenly burst into tears.

Geraldine’s arms were round her friend’s neck in a moment.

“You poor darling!” she cried, kissing her; “I knew somebody had been hurting your feelings; I just knew it! As if it were your fault that your father happened to be a German! I’d just like to kill the people who say unkind things to you.”

“Oh, hush, hush, Geraldine,” soothed Gretel, smiling through her tears. “You mustn’t get so excited about nothing. No one has said anything unkind. That isn’t why I’m crying. It’s because—oh, I can’t talk about it, but war is so terrible! It makes even good people do things they would be ashamed of at any other time. I’m frightened, Geraldine; I suppose it’s foolish, but I can’t help being frightened.” Gretel laid her head on her friend’s shoulder with a sob.

Geraldine soothed and comforted her as best she could, and in a few minutes Gretel dried her eyes and began to dress for dinner. But though she asked no more questions, Geraldine was not satisfied.

“Something did happen this afternoon,” she told herself with conviction. “Gretel would never have cried like that for nothing. Perhaps she’ll tell me about it by and by, but I don’t believe I’d better say any more just now.”

But Gretel did not “tell her about it by and by.” She was very quiet all the evening, and her friend’s efforts to discover the cause of the trouble met with so little response that Geraldine began to feel a little hurt. It was the first time in all the years of their friendship that Gretel had ever had a secret in which Geraldine had not shared.