“Sorry!” cried the young man; “you bet I wasn’t sorry. I’ve been wild to get into this war ever since the invasion of Belgium. It’s about time we Americans did something to lick the Germans.” “Take care what you say, Steve,” warned his friend from the opposite seat. “Miss Schiller may not care to hear about licking Germans.” The words were courteous, but the tone reminded Gretel of Ada Godfrey’s. She opened her lips to speak, but before she could utter a word Jerry’s clear treble had broken in on the conversation. “Gretel isn’t any more German than you are, even if she has got a German name,” he declared. “She’s just as good an American as any of us; aren’t you, Gretel?” “Yes,” said Gretel; “at least I hope I am. My father was a German, though,” she added truthfully. “Well, he’s been dead for ever so long,” maintained Jerry, “and, anyhow, he wasn’t like these Germans nowadays. I’ve seen his picture, and he looks so kind you wouldn’t believe he could hurt a fly.” “He was kind,” said Gretel, a little tremulously. “He was one of the best and kindest men who ever lived.” Nobody spoke for a moment, and there was a rather uncomfortable pause, which Mr. Chester broke by asking Jimmy Fairfax a question on some irrelevant subject. They were soon chatting pleasantly again, but several members of the party did not forget the little incident. “Well, how do you like Steve?” demanded Molly, coming into her friend’s room when their guests had left and they all had gone up-stairs. “Did I say too much about his good looks?” “Not one bit too much,” Geraldine assured her. “He’s one of the handsomest boys I have ever seen. I like him, too; he’s so pleasant and doesn’t treat me like a kid, just because my hair isn’t up yet. Didn’t you like him, Gretel?” “Very much, indeed,” responded Gretel, with a vivid recollection of the kind, understanding look Stephen Cranston had given her as he helped her out of the motor-boat. “And the best of it is,” continued Molly, “Steve is just as nice as he looks. He takes after his mother. Wait till you see Aunt Dulcie.” “She’s a widow, isn’t she?” inquired Geraldine, who had heard something of Molly’s literary aunt.