As Nan and Bess came along Main Street, there was the little, bristle-haired Teuton, standing at his door. His bald head was bare and he wore carpet slippers and no coat. As the light was fading, he evidently had come to the door to read a letter which he held close to his purblind eyes.
“Frau Deuseldorf hasn’t come down from the Hall yet—mean old thing!” ejaculated Bess.
“You needn’t call her names. I think she was awfully easy on you,” Nan said, smiling. “And she seemed worried, too, because Dr. Beulah caught the classroom in such a turmoil.”
“Well, it wasn’t my fault,” grumbled Bess, knowing, of course, that it was, but wishing to excuse herself if she could.
Nan made no immediate reply. She was watching the little German compassionately. As he stood there in the open door scanning the rustling sheet of paper, the girl saw that frank tears were running down his plump cheeks. Nan clutched her chum’s wrist, and whispered:
“Oh, Bess! what do you suppose is the matter with Mister Frau Deuseldorf?”
“What? How? Oh!” exclaimed Bess, likewise seeing the little man’s emotion as he turned back into the shop. “Why, Nan!”
“Yes,” said Nan. “He was crying.”
“Let’s go in,” suggested the impulsive Bess. “Maybe he will tell us about it.”
“But—but—I wouldn’t like to intrude,” Nan said.