Fräulein did not answer, and, having reached the door, Gretel opened it, and went out. In the hall she met Geraldine.
“Oh, here you are,” said the younger girl, in a tone of evident satisfaction. “I was going to Fräulein’s room to look for you. Miss Minton sent me for you. She wants you to play.”
Gretel’s face brightened. Her music was one of the greatest pleasures of her life, and to be asked to play to Miss Minton was a great compliment. Five minutes later she was at the piano in the Mintons’ private parlor, touching the keys with loving fingers, while Miss Minton and her sister knitted socks for the soldiers.
And as she played, all the trouble died out of Gretel’s brown eyes, and was replaced by the sweet, dreamy expression, which always came with the music she loved. For the moment, war, discussions with Fräulein, everything was forgotten, but the grand old masterpiece she was playing, and which her father had loved. She played uninterruptedly for nearly an hour, and when she rose at last, in a panic of fear, lest she had tired her audience, Miss Minton’s “Thank you, my dear,” was so hearty, that the girl’s heart swelled with pride, for her schoolmistress seldom paid compliments. Miss Laura said nothing, but as Gretel left the room, she heard the younger sister remark in a voice that was not quite steady:
“I suppose I am very foolish, but music like that always makes me cry. What a gift that child has.”
Gretel smiled. She knew that she possessed a great gift, but the knowledge had never made her conceited.
“It is Father’s legacy to me,” she often told herself, “the only legacy he had to leave; poor, kind Father.” And she resolved to do all in her power to perfect herself in this one talent of hers.
The girls were all in the gymnasium, playing games. Gretel heard their voices, but somehow she did not feel like joining them that evening. So, after lingering a moment in the hall, she went up-stairs to the room she shared with Geraldine. She switched on the electric light, and, going to the bureau, stood for a long time gazing at the framed photograph of her father. It was the photograph of the proverbial German musician, deep-set eyes, and protruding brows, but the eyes were very kind and gentle, and as she looked at the familiar face, Gretel’s own eyes suddenly filled with tears.
“Dear Father,” she murmured, bending to kiss the picture; “I think I am almost glad you are in heaven. It would have made you so unhappy to know of the terrible things your people have done. But the rest are not like you; oh, they are not like you!” Gretel’s head drooped, and putting up both hands to her burning face, she burst into tears.
She was already in bed when Geraldine came up half an hour later, full of the fun they had been having in the gym. When one is only fourteen, even the news that one’s country has gone to war cannot altogether crush the desire for fun.