"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 ?" "Jean, Jean!" remonstrated Clara.
"Oh, Miss Vance! This is life and death to some of us! What do they do ?" "Do ?" said the man, staring.