'That is silly,' said Frau Ebermann. 'The people fired on us, and they were punished. Those places are wiped out, stamped flat.'
'Yes, yes, wiped out, stamped flat. That is why and—I have lost the ribbon off my pigtail,' said the younger girl. She looked behind her over the sofa-back.
'It is not here,' said the elder. 'It was lost before. Don't you remember?'
'Now, if you are lost, you must go and tell our police. They will take care of you and give you food,' said Frau Ebermann. 'Anna will show you the way there.'
'No,'—this was the six-year-old with the smile,—'we must wait here till our people come for us. Mustn't we, sister?'
'Of course. We wait here till our people come for us. All the world knows that,' said the eldest girl.
'Yes.' The boy in her lap had waked again. 'Little children, too—as little as Henri, and he doesn't wear trousers yet. As little as all that.'
'I don't understand,' said Frau Ebermann, shivering. In spite of the heat of the room and the damp breath of the steam-inhaler, the aspirin was not doing its duty.
The girl raised her blue eyes and looked at the woman for an instant.
'You see,' she said, emphasising her statements with her fingers, 'they told us to wait here till our people came for us. So we came. We wait till our people come for us.'
'That is silly again,' said Frau Ebermann. 'It
