“But,” interposes the nurse in her most discreet voice, “she is really a very nice woman. If you would allow me to take her on as a housemaid in the general hospital, I think I could make something out of her; at least I should like to try.” “Have your own way,” says the commandant, relenting; “you always do. Now tell me the next trouble. You have something more up your sleeve, I'm sure.” “Babies,” she replies demurely; “two babies from Amsterdam. Lost, somehow or other, in the flight. No trace of their people. A family in Zaandam has been taking care of them, but can't afford it any longer. So the Amsterdam committee has sent them here.” The commandant has listened, his cheeks growing redder and redder, his eyes rounder and more prominent. He springs up and paces the floor in wrath. “Babies!” he cries stormily. “By all the gods, da--those Amsterdammers! Excuse me, but this is too much. Do they think this is a foundling asylum? or a nursing home? Babies! What in Heaven's name am I to do with them? Babies! Where are those babies?” “Just outside, and very nice babies indeed,” says the nurse, opening the hall door and giving a soft call. Enter a slim black-haired boy of about three and a half years and a plump golden-haired girl about a year younger. They toddle to the nurse and snuggle against her blue dress and white apron. Smiling she guides them toward the commandant and says: “Here they are, sir. How do you like them?” That terrific personage has been suddenly transformed from haircloth into silk. He beams, and pulling out his fat gold watch, coos like a hoarse dove: “Look here, _kinderen_, come and hear the bells in my tick-tock!” Presently he has one of them leaning against the inside of each knee, listening ardently to the watch. “What do you think of that!” he says. “What is your name, youngster?” “Hendrik,” answers the boy, looking up. “Hendrik _what?_ You have another name, haven't you?” The boy shakes his head and looks puzzled, as if the thought of two names were too much for him. _“Hendrik,”_ he repeats more clearly and firmly. “And what is her name?” asks the commandant, patting the little girl. _“Sooss,”_ answers the boy. “Mama say _'ickle angel.'_ Hendrik say _Sooss.”_ All effort to get any more information from the children was fruitless. They were too small to remember much, and what they did remember was of their own size--only very little things, of no importance except to themselves. The commandant looks at the nurse quizzically. “Now, miss, you have unloaded these vague babies on me. What do you propose that I should do with them? Adopt them?” “Not yet, anyhow,” she answers, smiling broadly. “Let us take them up to the camp. I'll bet we can find some one there to look after them. What do you say, sir?” “Well, well,” he sighs, “have your own way as usual! Just ring that bell for the automobile, _als't-Ublieft.”_