station master, a stout old man with a pipe in his mouth.

"Gone to America, for the most part," he said, with a
shrug.

Lucy came up hastily, an angry glitter in her soft eyes.
"You have no right to make me play the spy in this way!"
she said haughtily, and going into the little station sat
down with her back to the door.

"You? It is I--I----" muttered Jean breathlessly. "And
who lives in the tower, my good man? It is not big
enough for a dozen hens." She slipped a florin into his
hand.

"Four of the noble ladies live there. The princesses.
The gracious sisters of Furst Hugo. There come two of
them now."

A couple of lean, wrinkled women dressed in soiled merino
gowns and huge black aprons, their hair bristling in curl
papers, crossed the road, peering curiously at the
strangers.

"They came to look at you, Fraulein," said the man,
chuckling. "Strangers do not stop at Wolfburgh twice in
the year."

"And what do the noble ladies do all the year?"