“Of course it ought, but Dora had better mind her own business, and not put ideas into your head. You mustn’t spend your time gossiping with her, Gretel; she’s nothing but an ignorant servant. There, I’ve finished my chocolate, and I don’t believe my hair needs much brushing to-night. Run off to bed; it really is terribly late for you to be up.”

Gretel obeyed, but when she had bidden Ada good night, and was taking the empty cup back to the kitchen, she whispered softly to herself:

“I wonder what ‘gossip’ means? I hope I don’t do it if it’s something not nice, but I do like Dora very much, and I’m very glad I’m going to know Lillie and Peter too.”

CHAPTER II
MUSIC AND CREAM-PUFFS

GRETEL’S first sensation on waking the next morning was that something pleasant was going to happen. She could not remember for the first few moments just what it was to be, but then it all came back to her; her conversation with Dora; her crying fit over the piano, and Dora’s promise to bring her sister and brother to play and sing for her. She was conscious of a little thrill of anticipation as she sprang out of bed and began putting on her stockings. She had lived with Mrs. Marsh for more than a year, but this was the first time there had ever been a question of her having visitors of her very own. Mrs. Marsh and her daughter had plenty of visitors, of course, and some of them had been kind to the little girl, but that was quite a different thing from having people coming expressly to see her. In the old days at the studio they were always having visitors, and she had had almost more friends than she could count, but since her father’s death all the old friends had seemed to fade away too. They never came to Mrs. Marsh’s, not even kind Fritz Lipheim or his mother, with whom she had often stayed for weeks at a time while Hermann Schiller was away on a concert tour. Old Mrs. Lipheim had been very good to the child, and had taught her how to sew on her father’s buttons and mend his socks. She was sure the Lipheims would have liked to come to see her if they had not feared Mrs. Marsh would object, but Mrs. Marsh had been so very stiff and unsociable on the day when she had come to take her away from the studio, and had not even suggested that Gretel should see Mrs. Lipheim again, although the little girl had clung to her old friend, crying as if her heart would break. Gretel was very grateful to Mrs. Marsh, but there were times when she could not help thinking how much pleasanter it would have been if her brother had arranged to have her live with the Lipheims instead of with his cousins.

It was nearly eight o’clock, but Gretel’s room was still very dark. Indeed, it was never very light at any hour of the day, for its only window opened on an air-shaft. It was a very small room, and before Gretel came had always been occupied by the maid-of-all-work, but the apartment was not large, and Mrs. Marsh had declared it to be the only room she could possibly spare, so the servant had been relegated to the maid’s quarters at the top of the house. But small and dark as it was, Gretel loved her room. To begin with, it was the only place in the world that was all her own, and then it contained all her treasures. There was her father’s photograph in a gilt frame, that Fritz Lipheim had given her as a parting gift; and his old German Bible, out of which he used to read to her and show her pictures on Sunday afternoons. There was also her old rag doll, Jemima. She was too old to play with dolls, now, but it was still very comforting to cuddle Jemima in her arms at night, when she happened to be feeling particularly lonely, or when Mrs. Marsh or Ada had been unusually cross. Then there were her father’s letters tied together with a red ribbon. There were a good many of them, as there was one for every day that her father had ever been away from her. Some of the later ones were in German, for Hermann Schiller had taught his little daughter to read and write in his own language, and as he and his friends usually spoke in German when they were together, it was almost as familiar to Gretel as English. But nobody ever spoke in German at the Marsh’s, and she sometimes feared she might grow to forget her father’s language, as she was forgetting the music he had taught her so carefully. Lastly, there were her books, not many, and all decidedly the worse for wear, but dearly loved, notwithstanding. There were “Poems Every Child Should Know”—Dickens, “Child’s History of England”—a few old story-books, and—most cherished of all—Grimm’s and Andersen’s “Fairy Tales,” which she had read over and over so many times that she almost knew them by heart. There was not much space for books in the little room, so they lived on the floor under the bed, and Jemima slept in the bottom bureau drawer with Gretel’s night-gowns and petticoats. But notwithstanding its many drawbacks, that little room was the pleasantest place Gretel knew in those days, and it was there that all her happiest hours were passed.

Mrs. Marsh was alone at the breakfast table when Gretel entered the dining-room. She was reading the morning’s mail, and merely glanced up from a letter long enough to give the child an indifferent nod. But Gretel had been taught by her father that one should always wish people a good morning, so before taking her seat at the table, she remarked politely:

“Good morning, Mrs. Marsh; I hope you had a good night.”

Mrs. Marsh did not take the trouble to answer, but Gretel never omitted the little formula, “because,” as she told herself, “Father told me always to say it, so it must be right.” She slipped quietly into her place, and began on the plate of oatmeal and glass of milk, which always formed her morning meal.

She had not taken many spoonfuls, however, when Mrs. Marsh finished her letter, and began to pour her coffee. Dora, having placed the breakfast on the table, had gone away to attend to other household duties. Then Gretel, who was fond of talking, felt emboldened to make another attempt at conversation, unpromising as such an attempt might seem.