Leighton had discovered that she was an Alsatian, and had profited
thereby in the ordering of his dinner. She was the daughter-in-law of
the old couple that owned the inn. He turned to her and said in French,
so that Lewis could understand:

"Smile but once, dear lady. You serve us as though we were Britishers."

The woman turned quickly.

"And are you not Britishers?"

"No," said Leighton; "Americans."

"So!" cried the woman, her face brightening. She turned to the two
listening groups. "They are not English, after all," she called gaily.
"They are Americans--Americans of New York!"

There was an instant change of the social atmosphere, a buzz of eager
talk. The old men and the old women drew near. Then came shy, but eager,
questions. Hans, Fritz, Anna were in New York. Could Leighton give any
news of them? Each had his little pathetically confident cry for news of
son or daughter, and Leighton's personal acquaintance, as an American,
was taken to range from Toronto to Buenos Aires.

Leighton treated them like children; laughed at them, and then described
gravely in simple words the distances of the New World, the size and the
turmoil of its cities.

"Your children are young and strong," he added, noting their wistful
eyes; "they can stand it. But you--you old folks--are much better off