Mr. Becker’s face was fairly beaming at her across the table. “You cannot be sure about that,” he said. “In these days there is work for all to do. No one is too young or too ignorant to help. You may not realize it, but you have a great opportunity before you.” “I!” cried Gretel, opening her eyes in genuine astonishment. “Why, what can I do?” Mr. Becker smiled a rather peculiar smile. “You are going to Washington,” he said, “and you have been visiting in New London. One often sees and hears things that might be of great service to the Government, and which should be reported.” Gretel remembered Fritz Lippheim, and her cheeks grew crimson. Was it possible that Fräulein’s uncle knew of that meeting, and was going to reprove her for not betraying her old friend? She did not speak, and in a moment Mr. Becker went on. “Your brother, I understand, holds an important position in Washington. You are likely to meet many interesting people, and may hear things which will be very valuable to us. You understand what I mean, do you not?” Gretel gave a violent start, and her heart began to beat very fast. “I don’t think I do understand,” she said. “Do you mean that I should tell my brother everything I see and hear? I would do that naturally, of course, but sometimes one happens to meet an old friend, just by accident, and----” Gretel paused, abruptly, struck by the altered expression of Mr. Becker’s face. He still smiled, but his smile had changed. “I think perhaps you do understand a little better than you care to show,” he said, mysteriously. “I must give you credit, my dear young lady, for being much cleverer than I supposed.” Gretel pushed back her chair from the table, and rose. “I really cannot stay any longer,” she said, hurriedly. “I am afraid my brother will be anxious about me. Good-bye, Mrs. Becker. I am terribly sorry about Fräulein. Perhaps you will send me a line to let me know how she gets on. My address is----” “Sit down!” thundered Mr. Becker, in a voice so changed that Gretel dropped back into her chair, shaking from head to foot. “I think we are misunderstanding each other,” the man went on, in a quieter tone, but with eyes fixed sternly on Gretel’s face. “When I ask Hermann Schiller’s daughter if she wishes to help her country, I naturally suppose she knows what country I mean.” “I thought you meant my own country,” faltered Gretel. “I am an American.” “An American!” repeated Mr. Becker, scornfully. “Hermann Schiller’s daughter an American! It is impossible! I will not believe it.” “My mother was an American,” said Gretel, “and I was born here in New York. I have always loved Germany, for my father’s sake, but if he were alive now, I know he would not approve of the dreadful things the Germans are doing.” Gretel was horribly frightened, and yet, oddly enough, she had never felt so truly an American as she did at that moment.