“You need not fly at me,” she sobbed. “Your father was a German.” “I know he was,” said Gretel, unsteadily, “and he was one of the best men who ever lived. If he were alive now, I know he would not approve of the dreadful things the Germans have done. He was always kind and good to everybody.” “So was my cousin Rudolph,” murmured Fräulein, “but when war comes what can one do? One must obey one’s superiors.” “I wouldn’t!” cried Gretel, hotly. “I would rather be shot a hundred times over than do some of the things the Germans have done in France and Belgium.” Fräulein threw herself back on the bed, and turned her face to the wall. “You had better go away,” she said, crossly; “you are not sympathetic to-night, and my head is bad.” Gretel moved a few steps nearer to the door. “Good-night,” she said. “I’m sorry you won’t let me do anything for you. I didn’t mean to be unsympathetic. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, or say unkind things about your country, but----” “It is your country as well as mine,” interrupted the German woman. “I well remember the time when you were proud to be the daughter of the famous Hermann Schiller.” The tears started to Gretel’s eyes. “I am proud of my father now,” she said, “just as proud as I ever was in my life, but it is because he was a good man, and a great musician, not because he was a German.” Fräulein did not answer, and, having reached the door, Gretel opened it, and went out. In the hall she met Geraldine. “Oh, here you are,” said the younger girl, in a tone of evident satisfaction. “I was going to Fräulein’s room to look for you. Miss Minton sent me for you. She wants you to play.” Gretel’s face brightened. Her music was one of the greatest pleasures of her life, and to be asked to play to Miss Minton was a great compliment. Five minutes later she was at the piano in the Mintons’ private parlor, touching the keys with loving fingers, while Miss Minton and her sister knitted socks for the soldiers. And as she played, all the trouble died out of Gretel’s brown eyes, and was replaced by the sweet, dreamy expression, which always came with the music she loved. For the moment, war, discussions with Fräulein, everything was forgotten, but the grand old masterpiece she was playing, and which her father had loved. She played uninterruptedly for nearly an hour, and when she rose at last, in a panic of fear, lest she had tired her audience, Miss Minton’s “Thank you, my dear,” was so hearty, that the girl’s heart swelled with pride, for her schoolmistress seldom paid compliments. Miss Laura said nothing, but as Gretel left the room, she heard the younger sister remark in a voice that was not quite steady: “I suppose I am very foolish, but music like that always makes me cry. What a gift that child has.” Gretel smiled. She knew that she possessed a great gift, but the knowledge had never made her conceited.