They had no more than left the hospital clearing to enter the forest, through which the bright afternoon sun fell in delicate shafts on the snow-covered ground, but Adelheid had grown bolder now, and sought her friends almost at the hospital doors.
“Good-day, young ladies,” she greeted Lucy and Michelle, running up with a beaming smile, her flaxen braids streaming. “And meinen Herrn, good-day to you,” she stammered, bobbing a stiff little curtsey to the four officers, her fluent tongue checked by a sudden return of shyness.
“Where are the boys, Adelheid?” asked Lucy, taking her hand. “Have you lost them in the woods again?”
“Ach, no, Fräulein, I will not do that any more, for Papachen whipped me,” cried the child, looking up with friendly confidence into Lucy’s face. “He is cross now, Papachen. I think he is angry about something. I don’t know what.”
Larry asked Michelle, “Is Franz as afraid as ever of leaving Adelheid alone with you? Something funny there.”
“Yes, Captain Eaton, he calls her often away from us—although when he himself is with her he lets her stay as long as she pleases. He even smiles and approves Lucy’s kindness to the little ones.”
“What is it he’s afraid she will tell?” Larry pondered.
“She has told us all sorts of tales, but nothing he could fear to have known, unless he is ashamed of his poverty,” Michelle answered thoughtfully. “What most puzzles me is the sad, anxious face of the children’s maman. She has some grief more than everyday cares. She looks frightened.”
“Probably the old Boche beats her as he does this poor little Bocheling,” surmised Alan, who had listened to Michelle’s words. “You speak English very well indeed, Mademoiselle. Have you ever been in England?”
“Yes, before the war,” Michelle nodded, “but not for very long. Armand speaks better than I.”