These and other cries greeted Becky as she opened the door, and looked out into the Square.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, striving to push her way into the crowd, which did not willingly yield to her.
It was a poor child, her clothes in rags, who had fainted on the flagstones before the house.
“She’s coming to!” exclaimed a woman.
The child opened her eyes.
“What are you doing here?” asked a man, roughly.
“I came to see the ghost!” replied the child, in a weak, pleading little voice.
The people laughed; they did not see the pathetic side of the picture.
But the child’s voice, faint as it was, reached Becky’s heart. It was a voice familiar to her. She pushed through the crowd vigorously, and bent over the child.
“Blanche!” screamed the child, bursting into hysterical sobs. “O, Blanche! Blanche!”