Here Jean slipped an arm around Greta, who was leaning toward Molly, listening tensely. “Oh,—then the real Greta is buried there, and I am the little girl!”
“Yes,—the ‘kleines Mädchen.’ When I got home last night, Greta, I wrote down every German expression that I could remember, so I could swear to it if necessary. And I lay awake thinking it out nearly half the night. There wasn’t anything else, except that she kept sobbing and repeating the little expressions she had used, Greta’s name, and asking if she blamed her mother. Did you ever think that you might have been kidnapped?”
“Yes. I made a wonderful story about myself and then I saw how silly it was. I even belonged to the German or English nobility, though as I couldn’t speak good German the first wasn’t likely. But it must be true that my people are dead in a storm, for anything that my mother said in that way would have to be true. Oh, to think of it! I knew I was different and didn’t belong! I’d rather be all alone than to be the daughter of that man—and poor Mother! She isn’t very bright, girls, just stupid about some things, and loves that dreadful man! What can I do? Oh, thank you, Miss Molly, for caring to tell me about it. It is a wonderful thing for me that you girls came here this summer!”
But Greta put her head in her hands, and Jean patted her shoulder. “We’ll have to think it out,” said Jean. “I told Molly that if it happened in an accident, maybe the poor woman wasn’t so bad to want to save her husband. But what was worst was about you, especially since you looked unhappy and tired out. Oh, yes, Molly, you forgot to tell Greta one thing, how she said she wasn’t making the girl that took the real Greta’s place have a happy time and was making her work for Greta’s little brother and sister. She has some crazy idea like that!”
“As long as that grave is there, it could be proved that I am not Greta, I suppose. At least, they’d have to explain it.”
“But perhaps they could take,—take it all away, if they had any hint that you knew,” said Molly.
“That is so. I will have to go back and wait. I always wondered why Mother had started a flower-bed and those rose-bushes there, but I never dared ask. I have a memory of a storm in the woods, or it seemed like that.”
As Greta spoke, a blinding flash of lightning was followed by a terrific crash of thunder. “My sakes!” exclaimed Jean. “Let’s get inside. Oh, I hope that the girls are almost back!”
The three of them had been too much interested in the story which Molly was relating to notice how black the sky had become. Nan rushed to the door to call them, but saw that it was unnecessary. The bolt of lightning so near had been sufficient warning. Greta went to work with them to close all the windows and door and drag the cots in from the sleeping porch. The room presented a disheveled appearance by the time they were through, but they were concerned only with the storm. Jean jumped with the next crash, but Greta, used to taking care of frightened little children in storms, smiled at her and took her hand, “What did you say your motto is?” she asked.
“Thanks, Greta. I’ll remember, but I’m terribly uneasy about the girls. If they had taken the boat, they could get away from the trees.”