“I didn’t mean to call it that,” explained Gretel, blushing. “I meant to say the opera. Father and I used to call it fairy-land because he loved it so, and I always call it that to myself. Father took me there once, and it was so beautiful. I’m sure the fairy-land they tell about in books couldn’t be any more beautiful. We sat away up in the top gallery, so it didn’t cost so very much. It was Father’s birthday, and he thought he would give us both a treat, but he was sorry afterwards, because a friend of his came the next day to ask to borrow some money, and he hadn’t any to give him. Father was so kind; he was always giving his money away to people. Mrs. Marsh says that was why there wasn’t any more money left for me when he died, but I’m glad he was like that; all his friends loved him so much.”
“Has your father been dead long?” Dora asked, with a glance at the child’s shabby black dress.
“He died a year ago this winter, just after Christmas. He was very ill on Christmas, but he would get up and light the Christmas tree. You see, Father was German, and in Germany every one has a Christmas tree. We always had one, even when there wasn’t much to put on it. I didn’t know how ill Father was, and I cried because he wouldn’t sit up and tell me stories. You see, we lived all alone in the studio, and there wasn’t anybody grown-up to take care of Father, and make him stay in bed when he was ill. But the day after Christmas he was so much worse that he couldn’t get out of bed at all and then Fritz Lipheim came and brought a doctor.”
“Who was Fritz Lipheim?” inquired Dora, who was beginning to be interested, and had seated herself comfortably on the sofa.
“He was a German, too,” said Gretel; “almost all Father’s friends were German. Fritz played the violin beautifully, but he wasn’t nearly as clever as Father.”
“What did your father do?” Dora wanted to know.
Gretel’s eyes opened wide in astonishment.
“Why, don’t you know?” she demanded incredulously. “I thought everybody knew about Father. He was Hermann Schiller the great pianist. I don’t believe anybody in the world ever played the piano like Father. He used to play at concerts, and crowds of people came to hear him. He might have been rich, only all his friends were so poor he had to keep giving them money. Everybody loved him. My mother loved him so much that she gave up her beautiful home, and all the money her first husband had left her, just to marry him and take care of him. She wouldn’t let him give away all his money, but she died when I was only four, and after that there wasn’t any one to take care of Father but me.”
“And what relation are you to Mrs. Marsh?” inquired Dora, who had been in the family only a few weeks.
“I’m not any relation at all to her. Mr. Marsh was a cousin of my mother’s first husband, Mr. Douane, but I never knew her till after my father died. You see, when the doctor told Father he was going to die, he was dreadfully worried, because he didn’t know what was going to become of me. He asked Fritz Lipheim to telegraph to my half-brother in China. My brother was very kind. He telegraphed back that Father wasn’t to worry, and afterwards he arranged with Mrs. Marsh to have me live with her. I have to be very grateful, Mrs. Marsh says, because if he hadn’t been willing to support me, I would have had to go to an orphan asylum. The Lipheims would have taken care of me, only they are very poor, and sometimes they don’t have enough money to pay the rent, so when Mrs. Marsh came and said I was to live with her, they were very much relieved. That was the day after Father’s funeral, and I was so very unhappy I didn’t care where I went.”