“You are a German,” said Mr. Becker, coldly. “People will believe anything against a German in these days. Is it true that you talked to a man in the street, and did not mention the fact to your friends?” “It was only for a moment with Fritz Lippheim,” sobbed Gretel. “He was one of Father’s oldest friends and he was so good to me when I was a little girl.” “Fritz Lippheim,” repeated Mr. Becker, in a startled tone. “You mean Lippheim the violinist?” “Yes,” said Gretel. “He and his mother were great friends of ours, but I hadn’t seen him in years till that day in New London. He asked me not to mention having met him, and I didn’t like to refuse. It made me uncomfortable afterwards, but I never dreamed----” Mr. Becker started to his feet, and began rapidly pacing the floor. It was evident that something had put him out very much. “I saw that fellow Lippheim in New London myself,” he muttered. “He was at that dance where I--I never thought of it at the time, but I believe he was up to some mischief. Gertrude, take that girl back where she belongs, and lock her in. Her snivelling makes me nervous.” “But Rudolph,” ventured Mrs. Becker, timidly, “the air in there is so bad. Let the child stay here for a little while. There can be no harm.” “Do as I tell you,” shouted her husband. “All my nerves are on edge. I cannot stand anything more.” Mrs. Becker laid a trembling hand on Gretel’s arm. “Come,” she whispered. “Don’t you see you are making him angry?” With an effort, Gretel dragged herself to her feet, and allowed Mrs. Becker to lead her back to her prison. Twice she stumbled and almost fell, but the woman’s strong arm supported her until she reached the little dark room, where she dropped on her hard mattress on the floor. In another moment the door was again shut and locked, and she heard Mrs. Becker’s retreating footsteps. She wondered vaguely why the woman was crying. It was not possible Mrs. Becker really cared, and was sorry for her. Nobody cared any more--not even her own family.