“I did not have the honor of his personal acquaintance,” Mr. Becker admitted, “but his art! Oh, Miss Schiller, what an artist he was!” Mr. Becker heaved a deep sigh, and raised his eyes to the ceiling. Before Gretel could speak again, there was a rattling of crockery, and Mrs. Becker reappeared, bearing a tray containing hot coffee and thick slices of brown bread and butter. Setting the tray on the centre table, she requested her husband and Gretel, in the same dull tone as before, to “come and eat.” Gretel was very uncomfortable, and very anxious to get away, but she dared not refuse the invitation, and Mrs. Becker poured her out a cup of the steaming coffee. “This is indeed a great pleasure,” remarked Mr. Becker, smiling benignly. “We are proud, are we not, Gertrude, to have the daughter of the great Hermann Schiller drink coffee with us?” “Certainly we are proud,” murmured Mrs. Becker, obediently, but the expression of her face did not change in the slightest, and Gretel, knowing how anxious she must be about her niece, felt very sorry for her. She was also a good deal surprised by Mr. Becker’s manner, for on former occasions when she had gone to see Fräulein, that gentleman had taken very little notice of her. “Your father was not only a great artist, Miss Schiller,” the host went on, sipping his coffee. “He was a great patriot as well. If there were more men like him alive to-day, it might be better for our poor country.” Gretel’s face brightened. Perhaps, after all, she had been mistaken. The likeness was certainly startling, but then people sometimes did look alike. “I am sure this war would have made Father very unhappy,” she said. “He was so kind and gentle; he hated everything cruel.” “All good Germans hate what is cruel,” Mr. Becker assured her. “All war is terrible, but there are times when stern methods must be used. The sterner the method, the sooner the fighting will be over.” Gretel could not repress a slight shudder; Mr. Becker’s voice sounded so fierce and determined. She glanced at Mrs. Becker, but her expression remained unchanged. “Your father loved his country better than anything else in the world,” Mr. Becker went on, solemnly. “I once had the pleasure of hearing him speak at a dinner given for the German Ambassador, and it was one of the most stirring speeches I have ever listened to in my life. I wish I possessed a copy, that I might read it to you.” “I should like to hear anything Father ever said,” said Gretel, with an uneasy glance towards the clock. “I am sure you would, but, alas! I fear it is impossible. That speech was delivered more than ten years ago, but I am convinced that Hermann never wavered in his love and allegiance to the Fatherland. I hope his daughter loves her country as well.” “I hope I do,” said Gretel, blushing. “I would love to help my country, but there isn’t much a girl of my age can do, except knit for the soldiers, and make bandages and surgical dressings for the Red Cross.”