“But I thought perhaps you’d rather not see them.”
“Not at all. I am sorry for them and the poor Trudchen. They are pauvres malheureux.”
“All right then, here we are,” said Lucy as they came out into the clearing. “Bob sent Trudchen word about Franz. I’m glad we shan’t have to tell her that.”
As they crossed the snowy clearing Adelheid appeared at the cottage door and ran to meet them. She had not even stopped to put on a shawl and her thin little body shivered as she came up, crying:
“Ach, Fräulein, and you, French young lady, we are very sad here! I am glad to see you! Come and talk to the Mamachen—she only cries and cries.”
“Hurry, Adelheid, we’ll run,” said Lucy, catching the child’s hand. “You’ll freeze.”
“I forgot the cold,” said Adelheid, with a serious, preoccupied air that was strange enough for seven years old. “I was so afraid you would not come!” Her flaxen hair was loosed from its braids and tossed about in the cold wind. Her cheeks were pale and her frightened blue eyes wet with tears. “We don’t know what will happen to Papachen,” she sobbed, clinging to Lucy’s hand.
Lucy lifted the pathetic little figure in her arms. “Don’t think of it, he’ll be all right. He will come back to you,” she promised, and, uncertain as she was of Franz’ punishment, she spoke with confidence enough to make the little girl look up at her with new hope, a smile dawning on her lips.
Inside the cottage Trudchen was shuffling about on listless household errands, her eyes swollen from crying, her face white with fear. The two little boys crouched together in a corner, trying to play, but stopping every moment to stare at their mother with unhappy, wondering eyes.
At sight of Lucy, Trudchen gave a cry of welcome. In her miserable loneliness even the glimpse of a friendly face meant help and comfort. But she came forward timidly, wiping her hands on her faded apron, her lips hesitating over the words she longed to speak, and tears again overflowing her eyes.