"May I go and talk to them a little?" she asked, in a coaxing whisper.
"Of course you may," said her father, and Eva ran out quickly, just as her mother looked up to say, "What is it?"
"I have sent Eva to talk to those unhappy creatures," said Mr. Whitaker. "We must try and cheer them a little. It is nothing less than a duty. Poor souls!" he repeated, "I have never seen anything so dismal."
"I think we fulfil our duty in providing them with shelter and food," said Mrs. Whitaker.
"You think nothing of the kind, Theresa," said Mr. Whitaker.
"I do," asserted his wife. "And as for Eva, she is already inclined to be exaggeratedly sentimental in regard to these people. She is constantly running after them with flowers and cups of tea."
"Nice child," said her father, with a little tightening in his throat.
"She is not a child, Anselm. She is nineteen. And I do not wish her to have anything to do with those women."
"Theresa?" said her husband, in a high questioning voice. "Theresa. Come here."
Mrs. Whitaker did not move. "Come here," he repeated in the threatening and terrible tone that he sometimes used to the children and to his old retriever Raven—a tone which frightened neither child nor beast. "Come here."