“It is Father’s legacy to me,” she often told herself, “the only legacy he had to leave; poor, kind Father.” And she resolved to do all in her power to perfect herself in this one talent of hers. The girls were all in the gymnasium, playing games. Gretel heard their voices, but somehow she did not feel like joining them that evening. So, after lingering a moment in the hall, she went up-stairs to the room she shared with Geraldine. She switched on the electric light, and, going to the bureau, stood for a long time gazing at the framed photograph of her father. It was the photograph of the proverbial German musician, deep-set eyes, and protruding brows, but the eyes were very kind and gentle, and as she looked at the familiar face, Gretel’s own eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Dear Father,” she murmured, bending to kiss the picture; “I think I am almost glad you are in heaven. It would have made you so unhappy to know of the terrible things your people have done. But the rest are not like you; oh, they are not like you!” Gretel’s head drooped, and putting up both hands to her burning face, she burst into tears. She was already in bed when Geraldine came up half an hour later, full of the fun they had been having in the gym. When one is only fourteen, even the news that one’s country has gone to war cannot altogether crush the desire for fun. “The girls all wondered where you were,” she said a little reproachfully, as she sat down on the edge of Gretel’s bed to unbutton her boots. “I told them you were playing for the Mintons, but I thought perhaps you would come in later.” “I didn’t feel like romping to-night,” said Gretel, “so I thought I might as well go to bed as do anything else.” “I’m glad you weren’t with Fräulein all the evening,” said Geraldine. “Ada said she supposed you were hobnobbing together, and it made me mad. You know the sarcastic way she has of saying things.” Gretel sighed. “I can’t help feeling very sorry for Fräulein!” she said. “Just think how we should feel if we were in Germany now, and couldn’t go home. It isn’t her fault that we are at war, nor her family’s fault either.” “No, of course it isn’t,” Geraldine agreed, “and I’ve always stood up for her when Ada and the others said disagreeable things. But she did act rather queerly to-night at supper. Suppose she should turn out to be a spy, or something dreadful like that.” Geraldine was romantic, and she and her twin brother had read a great many detective stories. “Nonsense,” said Gretel, indignantly. “You ought not to say such things even in fun.” “Ada wasn’t in fun,” said Geraldine. “She said--but perhaps I’d better not tell you if it’s going to make you mad.” “Tell me,” said Gretel, sitting up in bed. “After all, I suppose Ada has the right to say what she chooses, even if it is unkind.”