Peter paused abruptly, warned by a glance from his sister, and suddenly grew very much embarrassed.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Gretel,” he said, awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to say anything about them, but you see——”
“I know how you all feel,” said Gretel, blushing in her turn. “My father was a German, but I know he would not have approved of this terrible war. I am sure there must be other good Germans, who feel as he would have felt.”
“Maybe there are,” Peter admitted, reluctantly, “but they’ve got to be licked all the same. I guess I’ve got to go now; we were told to be back at camp before nine.”
A lump rose in Gretel’s throat, as she held out her hand to her old friend. Peter was the first person she knew who was actually going to the war. What if she were never to see him again? She had read of the dead and wounded lying in the trenches for days. Oh, war was very, very terrible.
“Good-bye, Peter,” she said: “you are a brave boy, and—and—God bless you, Peter, and bring you back safely.”
Gretel was crying softly when she went up-stairs, leaving Dora to have a few last words with her brother. She was very quiet at dinner, although Percy and Barbara did their best to make her first evening at home a pleasant one. She could not banish the vision of Peter’s bright, confident young face. She had never before thought of freckled, red-haired Peter Grubb without a smile, but to-night her old playmate had suddenly appeared in the character of a hero. How many brave young heroes there were, all going, like Peter, with light, confident hearts, “to lick the Germans.” They would not all come back. It was a very hot, sultry evening, and they sat in the drawing-room with all the windows open, chatting pleasantly, but always with that strange, new undercurrent of sadness. Once the silence of the quiet street was broken by the shrill cry of an Extra. Mr. Douaine bought the paper, which told of a German victory, and of a long list of casualties. By and by Mr. Douaine asked for some music, and his wife went to the piano. For a few moments her fingers wandered idly over the keys, and then she began to play. At the first notes Gretel’s heart gave a great bound, and the grateful tears started to her eyes. Barbara was playing her father’s Sonata, and Gretel knew that it was for her sake.
“How good she is,” the girl said to herself; “oh, how good she and Percy have always been to me!”
Later, Gretel took her turn at the piano, and as usual, forgot everything else in the music she loved, but when she had kissed her brother and his wife good-night, and found Dora waiting for her in her room, she remembered Peter again, and the troubled look came back to her eyes. Dora’s own eyes were red, but she was smiling proudly.
“Didn’t the kid look fine?” she inquired eagerly, as she unfastened Gretel’s dress.