“I know he was,” said Gretel, unsteadily, “and he was one of the best men who ever lived. If he were alive now, I know he would not approve of the dreadful things the Germans have done. He was always kind and good to everybody.”
“So was my cousin Rudolph,” murmured Fräulein, “but when war comes what can one do? One must obey one’s superiors.”
“I wouldn’t!” cried Gretel, hotly. “I would rather be shot a hundred times over than do some of the things the Germans have done in France and Belgium.”
Fräulein threw herself back on the bed, and turned her face to the wall.
“You had better go away,” she said, crossly; “you are not sympathetic to-night, and my head is bad.”
Gretel moved a few steps nearer to the door.
“Good-night,” she said. “I’m sorry you won’t let me do anything for you. I didn’t mean to be unsympathetic. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, or say unkind things about your country, but——”
“It is your country as well as mine,” interrupted the German woman. “I well remember the time when you were proud to be the daughter of the famous Hermann Schiller.”
The tears started to Gretel’s eyes.
“I am proud of my father now,” she said, “just as proud as I ever was in my life, but it is because he was a good man, and a great musician, not because he was a German.”