By the end of three weeks the novelty had worn off a little and the girls no longer struggled to be first in the baby’s affections, but were frequently willing to omit going to see her for a day or two.  And just then, when the mothers were beginning to smile and shake their heads over the situation, something happened which again made little Miss Elsa the centre of interest.

Mrs. Schmidt, prowling around the blackened ruins of her former home, came upon a metal box, locked and little harmed by the flames, which she remembered as belonging to the baby’s mother.  In great excitement she took it to Mrs. Hamilton and that evening the girls were called in solemn conclave to see the box opened.

First, Mr. Hamilton took out four photographs which were passed from one to another.  One pictured a gray-haired man in military clothes, very erect, very stern and fine-looking.  Another was of a plump, placid, elderly lady who looked the very picture of motherliness.

“I know that’s the baby’s grandmother and grandfather,” said Dorothy positively, and no one had any other opinion to offer.

Mr. Hamilton uttered an exclamation of surprise as he took the third picture from the paper which enfolded it.  “That’s the poor little mother,” he said softly, and the girls crowded around eagerly to gaze at the pretty, girlish creature looking out at them with hopeful eyes which foreshadowed no hint of her sad fate.

The girls were very sober, and no one broke the silence as Mr. Harnilton unwrapped the remaining picture.  It was a young man with a thim, delicate face and large eyes rather sad in their expression.  On the back was written in German, “Karl von Winterbach, to his beloved wife.”

“He looks like the picture of some German poet,” murmured Charlotte thoughtfully.

“The poor little soul had evidently dropped part of her name,” said Mr. Hamilton, “for the people in the settlement knew her only as Mrs. Winter.”

There was not much else in the box; a few ornaments, a little faded needlebook which looked as though it had been kept for memory’s sake, and two letters.  One of the letters was unsealed, and Mr. Hamilton took out a slip of paper which said with pathetic brevity, “If I am dead please send this letter to my dear father.  He will care for my baby.  Emilie von Winterbach.”

The girls scrutinized the address on the other letter with the most excited interest.

To the Herr Baron von Grunwald, 10 Sommerstrasse, Dresden, Germany, read Ruth slowly over Mr. Hamilton’s shoulder.  “Why, girls, he’s a baron; Elsa’s grandfather is a baron.”

“I knew she looked aristocratic,” remarked Betty in a satisfied tone.  “I shall go the first thing in the morning to offer her my humble services.”

“Well, young ladies, it looks very much as if the Social Six would be deprived of their youngest member,” said Mr. Hamilton as he put pictures and letters back into the box.  “I shall send that letter to-morrow morning, and another with it telling all we know about little Elsa’s mother, and I am sure we shall hear something as soon as possible from the Herr Baron von Grunwald.”