Mrs. Whitaker rose to her feet, her face flushing painfully. "Are we called upon to sacrifice our daughter's purity of mind, her ignorance of evil, to these strangers? Is it our duty to encourage an intercourse which will tear the veil of innocence from her eyes?"
"I am afraid so," said Mr. Whitaker gravely. "How can our daughter have pity on human suffering while she does not know its meaning? True charity, Theresa, cannot be blind; compassion must know the ills it tries to heal. My dear, we are face to face with one of the problems—one of the minor problems perhaps, but still a very real problem—which this ghastly war has raised. Think for a moment, Theresa; how can our girls, who are called upon to nurse the wounded in body, and comfort the stricken in soul, live in the midst of puerile ignorance any longer? Painful though it may be, the veil you speak of, the white veil that hides from a maiden's eyes the sins and sorrows of life, must be rent asunder."
"It is cruel! it is cruel!" cried the mother.
"Yes. War is cruel. And life is cruel. But do not let us—you and I—add to the cruelty of the world. If our daughter must learn to know evil in order to be merciful, then let innocence die in her young heart, in order that pity which is nobler, may be born." There was a long silence.
Then Mrs. Whitaker raised her husband's hand to her lips and kissed it.
CHAPTER VIII
Eva had gone upstairs to the schoolroom, now transformed into a sitting-room for the refugees, and had knocked softly at the door.
No one answered and she stood for a moment irresolute. Then the sound of a sobbing voice fell on her ear, "Mireille! Mireille!" ... The despair of it wrung her heart. With sudden resolve she turned the handle and went in.
Under the green-shaded electric light a picture almost biblical in its poetic tragedy presented itself to her eyes. The youngest of the refugees, the child, with her long hair loosened—and it fell like golden water on either side of her white face—stood motionless as a statue under the lamp-shine, gazing straight before her, straight, indeed, into the eyes of Eva as she halted spell-bound on the threshold. Kneeling at the child's feet, with her back to the door, was the eldest one of the three, her long black garments spreading round her, her arms stretched upwards in a despairing embrace of that motionless childish figure; her head was thrown forward on her arm and it was her sobbing voice that Eva had heard. Standing beside her holding a little golden crucifix in her clasped and upraised hands, stood the other girl—the girl who had smiled—and she was praying: "Sainte Vierge, aidez-nous! Mère de Dieu, faites le miracle!" Unmoved, unseeing, unhearing the little girl they were praying for stood like a statue, her wide, unseeing eyes fixed before her as in a trance.