With sorrow and pity throbbing in her heart Eva slipped back into the passage again, closing the door softly behind her. After a moment's uncertainty she knocked at the door once more, this time more loudly. A voice answered timidly, "Entrez."
They were all three standing now, but the tears still fell down the cheeks of the eldest one, who had quickly risen from her knees.
"May I come in?" asked Eva timidly. "I thought I should like to come and talk with you a little."
The second one, who understood English, came forward at once with a wan and grateful smile. "Thank you. Please come," she said. And Eva entered and closed the door.
There was a pause; then Eva put out her hand shyly and stiffly to the eldest one; "Don't cry," she said.
Surely no other words so effectively open the flood-gates of tears! Even though they were spoken in a tongue foreign to her, the stricken woman understood them and her tears flowed anew.
"Loulou, Loulou, ne pleure pas!" cried the younger girl, and turning to Eva she explained: "She cries because of her child"—she pointed to the little spectre—"who will not speak to her."
"Is she really dumb?" asked Eva, in awed tones, gazing at the seraphic little face, dazed and colourless as a washed-out fresco of Frate Angelico.
"We do not know. She has not spoken for more than a month." The girl's gentle voice broke in a sob. "She does not seem to know us or to hear us." She went over to the child and caressed her cheek. "Mireille, petite Mireille! dis bonsoir à la jolie dame!"
But Mireille was silent, staring with her vacant eyes at what no one could see.