“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.”